


Everybody Knows

by Susan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A hint of mystrade, Angst, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/F, Humor, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John Takes Care Of Sherlock, Lestrade/Mycroft (offscreen), M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, POV John Watson, POV Original Character, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susan/pseuds/Susan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if John and Sherlock don't have enough problems already (that whole Sherlock getting shot by Mary thing), now there's a cold case detective from Canada snooping around asking questions about Moriarty.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Kate took her time, wanting to give him time to get settled. When she returned, John had cleared away the tea and Sherlock was sitting in the leather chair wearing sweat pants and a faded white t-shirt under a blue silk bathrobe. </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>She didn’t know men still wore silk bathrobes. </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Thinner than his pictures, paler too.  All cheekbones and unruly dark hair. Blue eyes dulled by the pain meds. Needs to shave. Bare feet. Holds one arm against his chest.  Like he’s literally trying to hold himself together. Is he aware that he’s doing that?<i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everybody Knows

**Author's Note:**

> Written because, really, what the hell was everyone doing all those months before Christmas? Knitting booties?
> 
> Canon-compliant. 
> 
> Thanks to Marta for the Chapter 1 beta. And to peg22, who always keeps me right.

RCMP Inspector Kate Bryant was nervous. Her first meeting with Sherlock Holmes was scheduled to begin in half an hour and there was still no sign of the car that was to collect her from Heathrow.

She sent a quick text back home to Ottawa. _Flight okay. No sign of ride. Sorry about yesterday_.

She stared at the screen, waiting for an answer, but didn’t get one. No surprise there.

//

She’d requested this case three months ago. Her superintendent in the Cold Case Unit had told her to submit her proposal in writing – so she did – ten pages of annotated and footnoted brilliance that was half fact, half conjecture. For weeks she waited for him to at least acknowledge he’d received it. When he didn’t, she added “useless fucker” to the long list of reasons why she hated him. Other offenses included his taste in ties (red, always red), the way he slurped his coffee, and number one on her list for the last year, his refusal to even consider her transfer request to Toronto.

_I like to keep the pretty ones around, Bryant._

But then last week, after she’d finally accepted that her proposal was dead, in the middle of her investigation into the disappearance of two women from the Akwesasne Reserve five years earlier, he called her back to Ottawa and into his office.

“Pack your bags,” he said. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself and for a horrified moment she thought he was asking her out.

“Where am I going?”

“That proposal you submitted.”

Which proposal? Talking to him always made her feel as if she’d stumbled into someone else’s conversation.

“I passed it around upstairs, and it generated some interest. The feeling is that even if it’s a bit of a fishing expedition, it’s worth looking into. No statute of limitations on these sorts of things.”

She nodded. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she’d learned early never to let on.

“It wasn’t easy, but the budget approval just came through.” He paused and she realized he was waiting for her to thank him.

“Thank you.” In her head, she ran through the list of reports and proposals she’d submitted in the last few months.

“You leave Monday. You have a week. Akwesasne can wait. Those girls will still be dead when you get back.”

She took a breath. “Sorry, sir, but which case are you referring to?”

He frowned. “I stuck my neck out for you, Bryant, don’t disappoint me.” He slid a thin file across the desk. “You’ll liaise with our office in London –”

_Please say London, England, not London, Ontario._

“—A local fellow will pick you up at Heathrow and take you to see him. I don’t remember his name, Le-something or other. Sounds French. A DI at New Scotland Yard.”

Her excitement gave way quickly to disappointment. “I’m going all the way to London just to see this DI?” She’d thought she made it clear in her proposal that there was only one person who could –

“Don’t be stupid. He doesn’t know anything but he’ll act as your liaison with Scotland Yard. We’ve arranged for you to meet with Sherlock Holmes. It wasn’t easy, so don’t waste the opportunity.”

His cell phone vibrated. He picked it up and turned away.

She’d been dismissed.

 

She waited on the sidewalk for another fifteen minutes, during which she managed to convince herself that she had given the London office the wrong terminal, the wrong time, the wrong day. She was in the middle of sending another text – _Am fucked. No sign of_ – when a silver BMW pulled up beside her. The driver lowered the window and leaned across the empty passenger seat. “Inspector Bryant?”

“Yes. DI Lestrade?”

He nodded and stepped out of the car and went to the back to open the trunk. He was not what she expected a British cop to look like – clearly, she’d been watching too much PBS. This one was more George Clooney than Inspector Morse.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic’s a mess. Let me take your suitcase.”

“Thanks.”

He lifted the suitcase into the trunk and laid it on top of a child’s bike. He saw her watching – “Flat tire. Keep promising her I'll get it fixed.”

She got into the car, buckled her seat belt and they headed away from the airport and onto the highway.

“Good flight?” he asked.

“It was fine.” She wondered again why a DI pulled the rookie job of fetching her from the airport, but she was too polite – too Canadian, probably – to ask. “How far is it to Holmes’ apartment?”

“His flat’s about forty minutes from here in decent traffic, but I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans. He can’t see you today.”

“DI Lestrade—”

“Greg.”

“Everything was arranged.” She did her best not to sound like a petulant child.

“Yeah, well, now it’s re-arranged. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see him.”

“For fuck’s sake . . . sorry. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“I’ll drop you off at your hotel. Take a nap. See a show. Be a tourist today and tomorrow I’ll take you to Sherlock.” He muttered something else she didn’t catch.

“This is nuts.” She stared out the window, trying to breathe evenly. “Everything was arranged,” she repeated.

“Yeah, well, that was last week, eh? Turns out the gatekeeper won’t lower the drawbridge for anyone today. And I know better than to argue.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” This time she didn’t apologize.

 

He dropped her off at the hotel at 11, with a promise to pick her up the next day at the same time. Her room wasn’t ready so she checked her suitcase and carried her computer case to the Starbucks at the corner. She wanted to review the file one more time, to look at it with fresh eyes. She’d strung together a series of random facts – a dead MP from Alberta, a receptionist, a government worker named James Moriarty – and came up with a theory that could possibly connect them. She needed Sherlock Holmes – the expert on all things Moriarty according to Interpol – to take a tour of the straw house she’d created and either turn it into something solid, or like the Big Bad Wolf, blow it all down.

She pulled her phone from her purse. Sent another message home. _Cockblocked by Scotland Yard. 24 hrs to kill_.

Her phone pinged less than a minute later. _Stop whining. It’s London. Could be worse._

_Love u 2_ , she texted back. If only it were that simple.

She opened her computer and read through the files again. She recognized just how flimsy the evidence looked at first glance. It was hard to put into words the feeling she’d had – a kind of electric hum – the first time she’d stumbled across a possible link between Moriarty and the dead MP, Peter Goodale. The police had never identified a suspect and had always assumed his murder was a carjacking that ended badly. “Does a carjacking ever end well?” she’d asked the detective who’d led the investigation ten years ago. She sighed, closed the computer and tried to shake off the feeling that Sherlock Holmes would see her for exactly what she was. A complete amateur.

She used her iPad to log onto the internet. She went to YouTube and searched for Sherlock Holmes. The more she found out about him, the more curious she became. And if this case went well, if she managed not to make a complete fool of herself, maybe she could ask another favour of him.  

The first clip that came up was an interview he’d done outside his house, soon after he turned out to be not quite as dead as everyone thought. He was wearing the most ridiculous hat and a self-satisfied smile. She recognized that look – it was the one worn by every clever boy who’d just shown up all his classmates.

“You were away for two years. Did anyone know the truth?” the reporter asked. She was young and eager and held the microphone in front of Holmes, staring up at him as if he were Jesus Christ risen from the dead.

“A select few. Those closest to me.”

_A select few?_ Who talks like that?

That was when Kate noticed the man standing slightly behind Holmes off to his left. Roughly the same age, shorter, nice looking in a comfortable sweater sort of way. She restarted the clip and concentrated on him this time. Throughout the interview, he didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off Holmes. He reminded her of a political wife – the kind that stands beside her husband while he confesses to the world that he can’t keep his dick in his pants. When Sherlock Holmes had answered, “Only a select few,” she saw him flinch and look away for a moment. She replayed a few more times to be sure.

He didn’t know. Close enough to Sherlock Holmes to stand beside him, but not close enough to know the truth. _Ouch_.

There were a few more clips, dating back to when Moriarty had successfully convinced London that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. The same man stood beside him in those interviews too. She searched the Daily Mail archives and found out his name. Dr. John Watson. One Google search later, she found his blog. Bedtime reading, she thought, and bookmarked the site.

She tapped her phone to turn it on. No new messages.

With a sigh, she checked her watch – twenty-one hours left to wait. She drank what was left of her coffee and headed back to the hotel. She wanted sleep and a shower and a decent meal. Not necessarily in that order.

 

//

She had a sense of déja vu the next morning as she waited for Lestrade on the sidewalk outside her hotel. She’d half expected a call saying she’d been put off again. She’d stayed up late, going over her notes and reading John Watson’s blog. She’d made it up to the case he called “The Hound of Baskerville” before finally falling asleep.

She’d sent a text home after breakfast. _Need a Xanax. Need 2._ She hesitated, her fingers poised over the letters, then typed _We can work this out. We’ll talk when I get back. Please._

Her phone pinged a few moments later. _Just stop._

 

She recognized the BMW as it turned the corner. He didn’t get out this time, just leaned across the front seat to open the door for her.

The car smelled like aftershave and coffee and curry. Take-out on the way home last night. Lives alone. New shirt, same tie.

“Good morning, Inspector,” he said.

“Kate. I always think of Clousseau when someone calls me that.”

He smiled and she relaxed a little. “Looks like you made the cut today,” he said.

“Good. I read John Watson’s blog last night and Holmes seems kind of –” She wanted to say “crazy”, but settled on “eccentric.”

Lestrade snorted. “Sherlock, he’s not like most people. He’s a bit of an –” She saw him searching for the word – “arse . . . know-it-all sometimes. Don’t take anything he says personally. Especially now.”

A warning bell went off in her head. “Why especially now?”

“We worked hard to keep it out of the papers, but he managed to get himself shot a few months ago and he’s. . . he’s not back to himself yet. There were complications followed by surgery followed by more complications . . . he’s getting better finally, but it’s going to take time.”

“Is that why I couldn’t see him yesterday?”

“Mostly. Just don’t expect too much. And do as John says. You piss off his keeper and you’ll be back on the street before your tea gets cold.”

She was about to ask another question when they pulled up in front of a restaurant.

“It’s just next door – 221b. I’ll go find a parking spot. Wait for me downstairs. We’ll go up together. ”

She suspected a visit to North Korea could be arranged more easily than this.

 

An older woman met them in the doorway. “Visitors for Sherlock? That’s lovely. I suppose you’ll be wanting tea.”

“Only if you don’t mind, Mrs. Hudson.” Lestrade smiled and Mrs. Hudson’s hand went to her hair, smoothing it and smiling back.

_Jesus, he’s working the whole George Clooney thing._

“It’s no bother. I’ve got biscuits too.” She turned to look at Kate. “I’ve not seen you before.”

She smiled the smile she reserved for elderly ladies and babies. More forced than friendly. “I’ve not been here before. Just arrived in London yesterday.”

“From America?”

“Almost. Canada.” She held out her hand, “Kate Bryant.” She left out the Inspector part.

“I’ve got a nephew who emigrated there. Place called Prince George. He’s a teacher – computers, I think, or was it mathematics –”

“Tea, Mrs. Hudson?” Lestrade prompted.

“I’ll put the kettle on, dear. You go on up.”

 

She recognized John Watson when he opened the door. Shorter than she expected, older than he’d appeared on the YouTube clips. Dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks.

“Dr. John Watson,” he said after Lestrade introduced her. He extended one hand and she shook it briefly. Slight tremor. War injury? She noticed the emphasis he put on _Doctor_. Asserting his authority. Doesn’t approve of this visit. They shook hands and made (very) small talk about Canada ( _maple syrup good, that whole baby seal hunt bad_ ).

“Can I see him now? I’ve got a lot of material to cover.”

“He had a difficult night and he’s finally sleeping. I don’t want to wake him just yet.”

She had the sinking feeling she was about to be sent back to the hotel. But then Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray of tea and cookies and she understood that he was trying to make up his mind. “You might as well have tea. Then we’ll see,” he said. “Greg, you want tea?”

“Thanks, but no. I’ve got to head out. Call me if you need anything,” Lestrade said. She wasn’t sure who he was talking to.

 

“I read on your blog that you served in Afghanistan,” she said. By then, they were sitting on the couch drinking Mrs. Hudson’s tea from white china cups. The shortbread cookies were good, an Oreo would have been better. But if the only way to get to Sherlock Holmes was through John Watson, she’d play nice. For a while anyway. “My brother served there. Almost seven months. Helicopter pilot.”

John nodded. “Dangerous job, that.”

“Yeah. He’s happy to be home. Working for the Coast Guard now.”

She knew he was only half-listening, he kept glancing down the hallway towards what she assumed was Holmes’ room. She’d watched him pour the tea, and noticed the tan line around his ring finger. Like he’d recently worn a wedding ring long enough to get a tan, but not long enough to leave the characteristic indentation that comes after years of wear.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Kate fought the urge to walk down the hall and wake up Holmes herself. She’d passed the nervous stage and was quickly moving to impatient.

“How long have you been in the RCMP?” he said. She gave him ten points for trying.

“Eight – nine years, I guess. Been with the Cold Case Unit for the last two. It’s satisfying when you solve a crime everyone gave up on years ago. Especially for the families. Frustrating as hell when you don’t. Well, you know how it is. You both did quite a bit of . . . detecting.”

She heard a bell ring from down the hall. Seriously, _a bell?_

“His nibs is awake. I’ll be right back.” He stood quickly and disappeared down the hallway.


	2. Everybody knows the fight was fixed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate finally makes it past the gatekeeper . . .

She stood and took a look around the flat. A sagging couch, God-awful wallpaper, she stepped closer – were those bullet holes? She counted at least three, no four. A yellow happy face. A kitchen table that looked like a makeshift lab bench. The place was a total mess, books and newspapers spread out everywhere, but she had a feeling that was exactly how Sherlock liked it. _John Watson is ex-military, still carries himself like an officer. Why doesn’t he tidy this place up? Not allowed, I bet._

She went looking for the washroom. It was next to the bedroom and she stood at the door, listening to John and Holmes argue.

“I am getting up, John. I am not receiving visitors in my bedroom like the consumptive heroine of a Victorian romance novel.”

“Then lay off the bell and take the fucking pills.” He sounded more frustrated than angry.

"If I agree, will you help me to my chair? This visit is the first interesting thing that’s happened in ages. I may have been shot, but I will die of boredom if I’m forced to lie here much longer.”

“Fine. You win.” John said. “You always bloody win.”

There was a silence and she angled herself so that she could just see into the bedroom. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, a glass of water in one hand, a pill bottle in the other. He handed the glass to him and shook two large white pills out of the bottle.

“I’ll take _one_. Two, and my brain will be thick as molasses.”

“Jesus, Sherlock –” He shook his head and put one pill back in the bottle.

John watched him swallow the pill, took the glass and set it on the bedside table. They sat quietly for a moment, then John leaned forward and raised one hand to brush a stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead. His hand lingered against Sherlock’s cheek and she saw him lean into it. “You promise me, the minute the pain is too much –”

She felt like a voyeur then, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. She turned away quickly and went into the washroom.

 

She took her time, wanting to give Holmes time to get settled. When she returned, John had cleared away the tea and Sherlock was sitting in the leather chair wearing sweat pants and a faded white t-shirt under a blue silk bathrobe.

She didn’t know men still wore silk bathrobes.

_Thinner than his pictures, paler too. All cheekbones and unruly dark hair. Blue eyes dulled by the pain meds. Needs to shave. Bare feet. Holds one arm against his chest. Like he’s literally trying to hold himself together. Is he aware that he’s doing that?_

She could hear John in the kitchen running the water. Probably making more damned tea. It was like living through an episode of _Downton Abbey_. She’d kill for a cold can of Diet Pepsi. She walked over to Sherlock and held out one hand. He ignored it. “Mr. Holmes. Inspector Kate Bryant. RCMP Cold Case Unit. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Sit.”

Instinctively, she left the armchair to John. She dragged one of the chairs from the desk and positioned it between Sherlock and the armchair. She went to retrieve her computer from her bag by the door.

“I said sit down.”

She bent to pick up her bag.

“If you need your notes, then you’ve already disappointed me.”

She turned to face him. “I don’t. But if you feel the need to bully me, Mr. Holmes, then I’m the one who’s disappointed.” She left the case by the door and sat down.

The barest hint of a smile flashed across his face. “It’s Sherlock.”

_Holmes 1, Bryant 1. Not that she was keeping score._

She took a breath and began to tell him about the Member of Parliament from Alberta who was murdered more than ten years earlier in the parking lot outside his health club in Ottawa.

 _“_ Did he have a name? A wife? A mistress?” Sherlock prompted.

“Peter Goodale. The wife was Lucy. No children. No mistress that we know of.”

“The date.” He looked up at John. “For God’s sake, John, stop hovering over me and sit down.”

“February 20, 2002. A Wednesday.”

“Obviously. Continue.”

“No one saw or heard anything. The surveillance camera was broken – had been for more than a week.”

“Deliberate.” He shifted in his chair and winced and held his arm against his chest. John made a move to get up, but Sherlock shook his head and John sat back down.

“Yes, someone broke the lens. The investigation turned up nothing _,_ no obvious motive. The investigators concluded it was an attempted carjacking. The unsub – unidentified subject – must have shot Goodale when he resisted, got scared and ran off. He still had his wallet and keys.”

“And what piqued the RCMP’s interest after all time?” John asked.

“The Cold Case Unit – that’s me and three other detectives – we review old cases, re-contact witnesses. We rerun old DNA results through the database, looking for new hits, that sort of thing. Sometimes a case is reopened because someone comes forward with new evidence. Other times, if the case is high profile enough, it gets reviewed every few years. That’s how I came into this one. I didn’t have any expectations, really, I was just going to interview his family and friends – but then it got weird.”

Sherlock’s eyes were sliding shut. She stopped talking and looked over at John, wondering if she should continue.

Surprisingly, it was Sherlock who kept the interview going. "This is coming to a point soon, I hope.”

She told him about Goodale’s receptionist who was on the list of people she wanted to interview. When she went looking, she discovered that the receptionist had vanished a month after the shooting. Her parents told Kate that she’d been badly shaken by her boss’ murder and wanted to get away. They paid for a plane ticket to London, which she never used. They never heard from her again. They hired a detective who found no trace of her.

“And that’s when it gets really interesting,” she said, leaning forward in her chair.

“Oh God, I hope so,” Sherlock sighed. With great dramatic flourish. _The more bored he acts, the more interested he is. Good to know._

She went on. “I learned she had a boyfriend. None of her friends ever met him, and only one remembered his name. Even then, it was a common enough last name. This friend recalled that he worked for the government in Ottawa. Not exactly helpful – it’s a government town. I spent two weeks going through personnel records until I found him.”

She stood and went to her bag. “I need to show you something.” She rustled through some papers and pulled out a single sheet.

She walked back to Sherlock and handed it to him. It was a photocopy of a Health Canada ID card from 2002. A small black and white staff ID picture. _Senior systems analyst_. Lestrade must have told him this was why she was here, but she still saw something like surprise flash across his face. “And now it’s an 8,” he said. She had no idea what he meant.

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked.

“It’s Jim. Jim from IT . . .” he began in a voice she didn’t recognize, but was stopped by a coughing fit that became progressively more violent. John circled behind Sherlock’s chair and leaned over him, one hand supporting his chest while the other rubbed circles on his back.

"It'll pass in a minute, just try to relax—” Sherlock frantically reached for John’s hand, found it, and clutched tightly. He was obviously in considerable pain, but it appeared that the panic of not being able to breathe was overriding everything else.

John looked over to her. “Fetch a glass of water,” he said. “Please.” John continued speaking softly to Sherlock. "It's all right. Breathe slowly. That’s it. Good." He kept talking until the worst seemed to be over. He took the glass from her and held it to Sherlock’s lips.

“Watch him for me,” John said. He disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a syringe.

Sherlock shook his head wearily, but John said, “Enough.” He lifted the sleeve of Sherlock’s robe and injected the contents of the syringe into his arm.

“Let’s go.” He bent and wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s back and under his arm and helped him stand.

Kate followed them down the hallway, ready to help. She stood at the door and watched John ease Sherlock back into bed. Sherlock was quickly losing the battle to keep his eyes open and his words were beginning to slur. “John, another pillow.”

John left to fetch the pillow and Sherlock crooked a finger at her. She walked over to the bed and leaned down. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, “The girl who disappeared – what was her name?”

“Anna. Anna Ashcroft.”

“Of course – Moriarty – I should have –” he said and then closed his eyes again. “Say nothing to John yet.”

John returned with a pillow tucked under one arm. “He’s asleep,” she said, trying to hide the disappointment she felt.

 

In the living room, she checked her watch. Just past one. “John, that restaurant downstairs? The sign said they do sandwiches. How about I get us a couple? Compliments of the Canadian taxpayer.”

He hesitated. Glanced down the hall towards the bedroom, then nodded. “Yeah, all right.”

She picked up her purse from the floor. “Any requests?”

“Roast beef, maybe. And get one for Sleeping Beauty in there. Ham and swiss. No mustard. I doubt he’ll eat, but we can try.”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

There was something going on between John and Sherlock that she couldn’t put her finger on – probably nothing to with Moriarty, but it left her with the unsettled feeling that she was missing something important – like watching a movie filmed through a dirty lens.

 

The sandwiches were good, the potato chips interesting, the Diet Pepsi sublime. They sat at opposite ends of the couch, paper towels spread across their laps like plates. They talked, safe subjects like British weather and American TV. He asked her about the RCMP ( _no, we don’t all ride horses_ ) and how detective had never been her first choice – she’d been accepted to medical school in Montreal, but dropped out during her first year – family issues, she explained. A few years later, she saw a recruiting ad for the RCMP in the back of a running magazine and signed up as a lark. “I blame _Due South_ ,” she laughed. When he looked confused, she explained. “TV show.”

“My father was a doctor. My mother too,” he said around a mouthful of potato chips. “I don’t remember ever deciding to be a doctor, everyone just assumed, so I went along. Sherlock accused me once of always letting other people decide what I want. Not that he ever let me choose.” There was something in his expression she couldn’t read. Regret, maybe. He stood suddenly and headed down the hall. She heard the bathroom door close and the sound of running water.

The second the thought formed in her head, she knew she was right. It made a crazy kind of sense. _John’s in love with him_. And what did Sherlock do with that information?Took a header off a rooftop in front of him. Let him grieve for two years. Let him marry someone else.

_And I thought I had relationship issues . . ._

When John didn’t come back, she cleared away the sandwich wrappers and chip bags. She tore a page from her notebook and scribbled a note, “ _Will call later to make another appointment. Or call me on my cell– 613-458-0014. Thanks. Kate_.”

On the sidewalk, she hailed a cab and headed back to the hotel. She settled back in the seat, pulled her phone from her purse and texted home.

_Got nothing. Will call later. Answer the phone. Please._

The cab was stopped at a light when her phone pinged.

_NO._

She stared out the window as the cab crept through the traffic and replayed their last conversation before she left.

_Her suitcase lay open on the bed. Kate began to pack it with underwear and three, no four, t-shirts, her good pair of jeans. Dress pants and a decent shirt. She stood in front of the closet, trying to decide which sweaters to take._

_When she turned back, Chloe stepped between her and the bed, arms folded. Kate sighed. “Jesus, Chloe. Let it go. This is a business trip.”_

_“You’re only going because you think you can convince Holmes to look at Sarah’s file. Admit it. You don’t give a fuck about this Moriarty guy.”_

_Kate stepped around her and dropped the sweaters into the suitcase. She couldn’t believe they were going to have this argument. Again. She felt caught in a film loop that kept replaying over and over. “Sarah has nothing to do with this. I’m doing my job. That’s all.”_

_“Bullshit. You think the two of you will bond over Moriarty and he’ll help you.” Her expression softened. “It’s been five years, Kate. She’s gone.”_

_“I need to know what happened to her.”_

_Chloe sat on the bed. “I love you, but I am tired of competing with a dead girl for your attention.”_

_“That’s not fair.”_

_“I’m sick of being fair. If you go, I won’t be here when you get back.”_

_Chloe turned to leave, but Kate wrapped her hand around her wrist and pulled her back to her. Tried to kiss her anger away – it had always worked in the past. Only it didn’t work this time. Chloe pulled away. “Enough,” she said and the coldness in her voice frightened Kate._

_“I love you,” Kate said. “Please.”_

_Chloe didn’t answer, just grabbed the car keys from the dresser and left._

  


She’d texted home that she “got nothing.” Sitting alone in her hotel room later, typing up her notes on the laptop, she realized that wasn’t strictly true. Sherlock’s reaction to hearing the missing girl’s name – Anna Ashcroft – was strange. As if he’d suspected something and her name confirmed it. And why had he sent John out of the room first? And why was it impossible to find a decent pizza in this town? She tossed the take-out menus back in the desk drawer.

She jumped when her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Kate? It’s Greg, Greg Lestrade.”

“Hi,” she answered cautiously.

“No, I’m not calling to cancel,” he said. “Thought you might like some company – fancy some dinner?”

She hesitated. Looked around the empty room and the room service menu lying on the bed. _There were worse things than having dinner with Greg Lestrade._

“Sure. If you let me pick your brain about Sherlock Holmes.”

“Slim pickings, I’m afraid.” He was a terrible liar. “Pick you up downstairs . . . in an hour?”

“Okay.”

Before she undressed to take a shower, she sent an email to her superintendent.

_First interview went well. Follow-up scheduled in the morning. I’ll send a full report after next meeting._

_Kate_

 

The restaurant was amazing. She had steak and Caesar salad and probably too much Beaujolais. Greg was charming and attentive – he asked about Canada _(yes, lots of snow)_ and she asked about Britain _(yes, lots of rain)_. She explained hockey ( _puck, stick, net, rink_ ) and he attempted to explain cricket ( _ball, bat, wicket, pitch_ ).

After fifteen minutes, she held up her fork. “Stop. Please. I will never understand.”

“It’s not that hard. Really.”

“I swear you’re making it up.”

He shrugged and smiled. “Guess you have to grow up with it.”

“Do you play?”

“Used to. No time lately. And my knees tend to be angry with me for days after. ” He filled her glass and grinned at her. “You’re dying to ask about him, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” she said, a little embarrassed.

“No, you’ve been very patient.” The waiter appeared and cleared their dinner plates. He ordered dessert – two pieces of chocolate cake, two coffees. “Unless you want tea,” he added.

 _God, no_. “Coffee’s good.”

“Go ahead. Ask.”

“So what’s the deal with Sherlock Holmes?”

Greg snorted. “No one has ever put it quite like that before.” The waiter brought their desserts and coffee. He took his time adding sugar and cream and she knew he was deciding how much to tell her. “Let’s just say Sherlock is like cricket– too complicated to explain over dinner. He’s the smartest man I ever met, brilliant really. People generally don’t know what to make of him – like the newspapers – they had fun building him up, and had even more fun knocking him down. But he can be a heartless bastard too. How he did that to John, I’ll never –” He stirred his coffee again. “Truth is, I missed him when he was gone, and I’m glad he’s back.”

“You know I think James Moriarty had something to do with the murder I’m investigating?”

“Yeah, I read your report. But Moriarty’s dead, has been for more than two years now.” He shook his head. “You’re chasing a ghost.”

“The victim’s family should know who murdered their son. And what about the girl who went missing after the murder? I’m sure her disappearance is connected to Moriarty. What about her family?” She thought about mentioning Sherlock’s strange reaction to finding out her name, but decided against it. “What if this girl wasn’t just another one of Moriarty’s victims, what if she worked for him? What if she still works for him? I’m only asking if it’s possible Sherlock missed something.”

“Sherlock doesn’t miss things.”

“Everyone does. Even the world’s only consulting detective.”

He arched one eyebrow.

She took a sip of coffee and smiled. “I’ve been visiting his website, reading John’s blog too.”

“Don’t believe everything you read –and don’t expect too much from Sherlock right now.”

“So everyone keeps saying.” She scraped her plate for every last crumb of chocolate cake and finished her coffee. “Can I ask one more question?”

“I’ll have to start running a tab.” He smiled his best George Clooney smile.

“I’ve seen the way John looks at Sherlock. Are they –”

He laughed. “Even more complicated than cricket. I stopped trying to figure them out a while ago.”

“Fair enough. None of my business anyway.”

He paid the bill and drove her back to the hotel. He parked in front of the hotel and held up his warrant card when the doorman told him there was no parking there. “Sorry, sir.”

“I’ll pick you up at half nine tomorrow,” he said. She looked confused and he added, “9:30. Take you back to Baker Street.”

“Was this John’s idea?”

Greg pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped on the screen to show her a text. “I got this during dinner.”

_Bring her at 10. WITH BISCUITS. Want to see her alone._

_SH_

 

She started to ask, but he cut her off. “Don’t ask. I have no idea what he’s up to.”

“Makes two of us. Thanks for dinner, Greg.”

“My pleasure.”

She watched him drive away and tried to fight off the sinking feeling that she was in way over her head.

 

 

Back in her room, Kate logged onto her computer and Googled Sherlock again. Lots of hits about his “miraculous” return from the dead, an entire site devoted to theories about how it was done (including Tumblr, Twitter and Reddit entries, #emptyhearse, #sherlocklives). A series of interviews given by his fiancée. _(Really, Sherlock? A fiancée?)_ She scrolled through stories that claimed he was a fake, twice as many that claimed he wasn’t. She felt a surge of pity, she knew how much those stories must have irritated Sherlock. How much they must have hurt John.

Everything always came back to John.

She found his blog again and scrolled down to the last entry she’d read about the Baskerville case. She wandered around the blog, reading about their other cases (not quite convinced the stories were entirely factual), until she got to the one about John’s wedding. _Tried to get on with your life after Sherlock, did you? And how did that work out for you?_

There was a link to the wedding photos. The pictures all looked they were shot on the set of a cozy romantic comedy – the kind that usually starred Colin Firth and Kate Winslet. The ladies wore large hats and for some odd reason John and Sherlock were dressed identically.

The bride was what she expected – not beautiful, not young – mid-thirties probably, attractive in that straightforward, familiar kind of way. The bride and groom looked genuinely happy. So how did John end up living back at Sherlock’s only a few months later?

She went through the pictures again. Sherlock wore the same expression in most of them – a tight smile that never quite made it to his eyes.

She looked again at Mary Morstan’s smiling face. _Did you have any idea what a minefield you were stepping into?_

She closed the laptop and turned out the light.

She lay in the dark, mentally planning the next day’s interview with Sherlock. She’d start with Anna Ashcroft – see if Sherlock had really recognized her name or if the drugs had made him loopy. She had several pictures of her on the laptop she could show Sherlock including a few graduation photos from the University of Ottawa. Not that she expected him to recognize her – she’d disappeared more than ten years earlier – and she wasn’t particularly memorable, just attractive in an ordinary sort of way like Mary.

 _Like Mary_.

_Exactly like Mary._

She reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. Sat up and opened the laptop and found the pictures of Anna Ashcroft. She found John’s blog and pulled up a wedding picture of Mary. Placed it side by side with Anna’s graduation picture.

The hum was back. Only this time it was more than a hum – it was an electric storm that had every neuron firing.

John Watson had married Anna Ashcroft.


	3. Everybody knows the good guys lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Kate, it's finally coming together. For Sherlock, it's falling apart.

 

She stood on the sidewalk outside the hotel at 9:30 the next morning watching for Greg’s car, computer case in one hand, a Starbucks Venti coffee in the other. She was tired – she’d spent most of the night trying to convince herself that Mary Morstan _wasn’t_ Anna Ashcroft no matter how similar they looked – it was just too much of a coincidence. And she didn’t believe in coincidences. But if it wasn’t a coincidence, what series of unlikely events would end with Moriarty’s ex-girlfriend marrying Sherlock’s friend? Boyfriend?

She knew Moriarty had gone to great lengths to destroy Sherlock. Was Mary part of his plan too? And if she did work for Moriarty, why would she stick around after Moriarty died? Kate had stitched together a dozen different scenarios, each more farfetched than the last.  

_There is not enough coffee in the world for this._

She checked her phone. 9:45. No message from Chloe. No sign of Greg. _Fuck._

A battered green Ford Fiesta squealed to a stop in front of her. A woman – _30ish, no makeup, missing the second button on her shirt_ – stepped out and turned to look at her. She didn’t look pleased. _But you’re the type that’s never pleased, aren’t you?_

She pointed a finger at Kate. “Are you Bryant?”

“Inspector Bryant. Yes.” She gave herself points for not giving in to the urge to say “ _And who the hell are you?”_

“Get in. I’m the lucky one who gets to play chauffeur today. Why you can’t take a bloody cab . . . “

The front seat was littered with empty coffee cups and old papers. Kate had started to collect them when the woman shovelled them all to the floor with one sweep of her hand. “Mind where you step,” she said.

“And you are?” Kate asked in as polite a voice as she could manage.

“DS Donovan. Lestrade got called away, so he told me to fetch you and take you to his lordship’s flat.”

Listening to her was like watching a movie with sub-titles. You always knew what she was thinking.

“I could have taken a cab.”

Donovan snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

She drove to Sherlock’s with both hands gripped tightly on the wheel, cursing at everyone who got in her way. More than once, she started to say something to Kate but stopped, as if she’d promised someone that she would behave.

A long twenty minutes later, she pulled up in front of Speedy’s. “Here you go, then.” She turned to look at Kate. “He’s not what everything thinks he is. He may not have invented Moriarty, but he’s still hiding something. Top of the list is who shot him. Ask the freak _that_.” She pulled at her shirt self-consciously, closing the gap caused by the missing button. “Of course no one listens to me,” she added bitterly.

_Oh, but they did, didn’t they? And look how well that turned out._

“Thanks for the ride. Tell Greg I can take a taxi later.”

“So it’s _Greg_ , eh?” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

Kate got out and started to walk away but Donovan called her back. Kate stepped around to the driver’s side and Donovan handed her a paper bag through the open window. “I forgot to give you these. Tell John he owes me two pounds fifty.”

 

Mrs. Hudson sent her up with a message to tell Sherlock that the tea was coming.

“Inspector Lestrade picked up John quite early, so it’s just you and Sherlock today,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Something to do with a new case, I expect. I had to push him out the door, poor dear, he hates leaving Sherlock alone.”

“You’re late,” Sherlock said when she entered. He was back in the leather chair. “And you brought coffee. Excellent.” He held out one hand and she reluctantly handed it over. _Different t-shirt, different sweatpants. Same dressing gown. Clean-shaven. Eyes clear – either no meds or no pain. Probably not both._

“Sorry. My ride was – “

“Stop apologizing. It’s an appalling habit you Canadians have. Where are my biscuits?”

She held up the bag. “Mrs. Hudson says the tea is coming.”

“So is Christmas.”

She handed him the bag of cookies and he opened it, looked inside and groaned. “Sod it. Who let Donovan buy the biscuits?” He dropped the bag on the floor beside his chair. “I despise macaroons.” He looked at her. “Not sleeping?”

“I slept.” She pulled over a chair from the table and sat between Sherlock and the empty armchair.

“Not enough. You’re wearing make-up today, something you don’t normally do, so I suspect you’re trying to hide the evidence of a sleepless night. No doubt spent wondering why I recognized Anna Ashcroft’s name.”

_Was he always this annoying?_

“I have some theories,” Kate said. _All crap, of course_.

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. While I was away –”

“Really? That’s what you call it? Being _away_?” She was pretty sure that’s not what John called those two years. She probably shouldn’t have said it, but the man had just stolen her coffee.

He ignored her. “I spent some time in Ottawa. Do you know _The Scone Witch_?”

She nodded. It was only two blocks from her apartment.

“Excellent tea shop. I recommend the lemon scones.”

“Why were you in Ottawa?” _Why was anyone, really?_

“I knew Moriarty lived in Canada – primarily Montreal and Ottawa – for several years before he moved back to Britain. Most likely from 1998 until mid-2002. He was a contractor then – murder for hire, extortion, that sort of thing. But he got bored. The smart ones always do.”

“So where does my MP fit in?”

She saw disappointment flash across his face. “You’re the detective, you tell me.”

She was about to answer when Mrs. Hudson appeared at the doorway with the tea. “I brought some biscuits too. Shortbread.” She looked at Sherlock and smiled indulgently. “Sherlock loves his biscuits. Don’t you, dear?”

“I was shot, Mrs. Hudson, not lobotomized.”

“Pity that,” she grumbled. She turned to Kate. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Kate poured tea for herself and placed two cookies on a saucer for Sherlock. She set them on the table beside his chair and tried not to stare longingly at the Starbucks cup.

He took his time with the cookies. When he was done, he brushed the crumbs carefully from his t-shirt. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Finally he said, “I traced Moriarty to the same government job you did. It’s reasonable to assume he was contracted to kill Peter Goodale. That’s all I know.”

“If you know that, then you probably also know it had something to do with the private member’s bill he was planning to introduce in Parliament. The bill would have restricted mining rights in his riding. When he died, so did the bill.”

He looked pleased. Like she’d passed some kind of test. “Well done, Inspector Bryant.”

“But it’s still only a theory. I was never able to find any evidence to support it.”

“I might be able to point you to several rather incriminating wire transfers to a numbered company in Ottawa from a relative of the owner of the mining company. It was called Wild Rose Resources, I believe.”

As much as she needed his help, she didn’t like that he’d made the offer sound conditional. On what, she wondered.

He lifted one hand to scratch his nose and winced against the pain. He closed his eyes and took long slow breaths. She noticed the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Do you need to take something?” she asked.

He ignored her. His breathing slowly returned to normal and he opened his eyes. “I’m fine.”

She resisted to the urge to feel his forehead for a fever. What was it about Sherlock that alternately made her want to hug him and smack him? “Can we keep going or do you need a break?”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “John will be back soon. Let’s move on, shall we?”

“OK. Anna Ashcroft.”

“A name on a list of Moriarty’s associates. Nothing more – I never sussed out her connection to Goodale. Something came up and I moved on.”

“You never went back?”

“It was winter. I don’t do cold well.”

“And you never investigated further?”

“There was nothing to investigate. Moriarty made a clean break when he left Canada. I saw no reason to return. And there were other, more pressing matters.”

She leaned forward. “And you never saw Anna Ashcroft’s picture?”

He shook his head impatiently.

“You had no reason to believe that Anna Ashcroft was the shooter in Peter Goodale’s murder? Or that she continued to work for James Moriarty after he left Canada?”

“Inspector Bryant, this is beginning to feel more like an interrogation than a consultation.”

She took the two pictures from her bag. One of Anna, one of Mary. She’d printed them out that morning at the hotel’s business centre. The quality wasn’t great, but they’d serve her purpose. She handed them to him and waited for his reaction.

He would have made an excellent poker player. If she wasn’t looking for it, she would never have seen it. The slightest intake of breath, a small narrowing of his eyes. But it confirmed what she suspected – he didn’t know. At least not for sure.

He handed the pictures back to her. “Well done, Inspector.”

“Does John know?” She guessed he didn’t.

 _It always came back to John_.

He hesitated and Kate knew he was deciding how much to tell her, what percentage of truth to insert between the lies. “That his wife was Moriarty’s girlfriend and likely his accomplice? No. He found out sometime after they were married that Mary was not what she appeared to be. She told him that her real initials were A.G.R.A., but that may have been a lie too. I didn’t know about her connection to Moriarty. Not until yesterday.”

She believed him. Almost.

Sherlock leaned forward. “What do you plan to do with this . . . insight . . . about Mary? You must know you’re not the first person who has stumbled upon the truth?”

“Stumbled? Really?”

He rolled his eyes. “I shall retire the day a simple Google search replaces the science of deduction.” _Arrogant bastard._

“I have Google, you have your brother. Same difference.”

His self-satisfied smile faltered. “How do you know about Mycroft?”

It was her turn not to answer.

“Did John leave her when he found out? Poor John, he finds out his wife is not the good nurse he imagined her to be – and then you get shot. How did he find out, by the way?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“And _then_ you get shot . . .” she repeated. Greg had said Sherlock couldn’t – wouldn’t – identify the shooter. She stood and busied herself with clearing away the cups. She thought better when her hands were occupied. Sherlock’s eyes followed her.

 _It always came back to John_.

She went still and felt the pieces sliding into place. She came back into the room and sank into John’s chair. “Oh my God. It was Mary, wasn’t it?”

“Kate . . .” he said quietly. He held up one hand, like he was trying to stop an oncoming truck. Only it was too late.

“Mary tried to kill you. Because you found out. And now you’re protecting her.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Mary’s pregnant.” He said it painfully, like the words were shards of glass.

“Oh, for crying out loud.”

 

That was when she noticed John standing in the doorway watching them.

“John. You’re back,” Sherlock said. He made no move to get up.

John looked back and forth between them. “Someone tell me what’s going on.” His voice was calm but Kate could hear the anger simmering beneath the surface. “Three hours, Sherlock. I leave you alone for three fucking hours . . .”

Sherlock started to answer, but John pointed a finger at Kate. “And you! You wanted to talk about Moriarty, you said. Just a few questions, you said. So someone please tell me why you’re throwing my wife’s name about. This was supposed to be about Moriarty. Because apparently there can never be too much bloody Moriarty in our lives.”

“Sit down, John,” Kate said quietly.

He shook his head. “I live here! Don’t fucking tell me to sit down in my own flat!”

Sherlock arched one eyebrow at that.

John glanced over at him. “Oi, you. Shut up.” He sat on the couch. Folded his arms. Tapped one foot. “Go on, then. Tell me why you are discussing _my_ wife. . . ”

She took a long breath. “Moriarty had a girlfriend when he lived in Ottawa. I – we – think he recruited her there and brought her back to England with him. I think she helped him kill Goodale. I suspect she went right on working for him afterwards. Her name was Anna Ashcroft.”

“Nice story. But it’s got nothing to do with Mary,” John said. Kate recognized that tone – it was the same one used by every relative of every victim she’d ever had to break bad news to. _(You’ve made a terrible mistake, Officer. My daughter will be home any minute. You’ll see.)_

“Her name was Anna, John,” Sherlock repeated. Slowly. Deliberately. “Anna Ashcroft.”

“Yeah? So? What’s that got to do –”

Kate picked up Anna’s graduation picture. Sherlock shook his head but Kate handed it to John. “This is Anna.”

He stared at it a moment, one finger tracing the outline of Mary’s smiling face. Then his face crumpled, his features collapsing in on themselves. “Oh God.”  He leaned forward and buried his face in both hands. “Jesus, Sherlock . . .”

He sounded sorry and tired and lost and undone.

Sherlock slowly pulled himself out of his chair and moved to sit beside John on the couch. It left him sweating and breathless and she knew from the way he was holding one arm tightly across his chest that he was in considerable pain. His other hand rested on John’s leg.

_You love him, don’t you? Enough to forgive him his wife’s sins. Or maybe this is just your way of doing penance for your own._

She left them sitting there and headed downstairs. Surely Mrs. Hudson had something stronger than tea to offer. She’d kill for a glass of wine and a joint. Not much chance of that, she guessed.

She sat on the bottom step and retrieved her phone from her pocket. She typed quickly and pressed send before she could change her mind.

_I love you. Everything you said was true. Please don’t leave me._

She stood and wiped her eyes. She ran a hand through her hair, squared her shoulders and knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door.


	4. Everybody knows the boat is leaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate’s uncovered more of the truth than Sherlock or John want to admit. Oh, and then there’s the case.

“Live and let live, that’s my motto.” Mrs. Hudson lifted the bottle of Jameson’s, but Kate shook her head and held her hand over her glass. It would have been the third of what could only be called liberal pours and she didn’t need to sit in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen getting hammered, when she knew the real action was going on above their heads.

“Wish my grandmother could have been so open-minded.” Kate sighed, glancing at her watch, at the door. She could hear muffled voices and heavy footsteps coming from upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson poured a bit more whiskey into her own teacup. “Well, when you’ve seen what I’ve seen . . .”

“You mean with Sherlock?”

“Oh my, no. They’re dears, the both of them. Mind, Sherlock could do with more space in his head for manners, and less in the fridge for earlobes, but I wouldn’t have anyone else upstairs.”

“Earlobes?”

Mrs. Hudson ignored her, lost in her own thoughts. “It was difficult, the years he was . . . gone. Didn’t think John ever would come out of it. And now he’s . . . life is full of surprises, isn’t it?” She looked up at Kate. “Though I’m sure you’ve heard a bit of that . . . nasty business . . . with Mary . . .”

Kate wondered how much whiskey it would take before Mrs. Hudson would tell her everything. Everything she knew at least. “Yes, that’s why I’m here. Partly . . .”

Mrs. Hudson frowned. “Yes, well, I shouldn’t be gossiping.”

“You’re not. You’re concerned for . . . the boys . . . and you want to help them. I want to help them too.”

Mrs. Hudson pushed away from the table and stood, pulling her sweater tightly around her. “You don’t even know them. And I know when I’m being interrogated – if I learned anything at all from my husband. But you’re a smart one. You’ll get it sorted out without my babbling on and on.”

Kate knew she had just been shut down by a pro. She was going to have to Google Mrs. Hudson when she got back to the hotel.

Her phone vibrated and she looked down. A text from Chloe.Perfect timing. She didn’t read it and turned back to Mrs. Hudson, who was smiling at her.

“Was that your special someone?”

“My girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend. Well, I’m not sure. We broke up before I came here. I think.” Kate couldn’t stop talking. Mrs. Hudson had sat back down and was nodding.

“She’s a cop too. Local, not RCMP like me. We met three years ago on a murder investigation. I never worked so hard to solve a case – I knew I couldn’t ask her out until we closed it. We moved in together a month later.”

“Well, John moved in the same day he met Sherlock. Though they weren’t . . . you know . . . until later.” She sipped her tea and laughed. “Later that night, if you judge by the noises coming from upstairs.” She shook her head. “Why John pretends otherwise, I’ll never understand.”

“Live and let live, eh?”

Kate heard voices in the stairwell – she stood and rushed out of Mrs. Hudson’s door and down the hallway. She didn’t want John leaving before she could talk to him.

She looked up and John was standing on the landing. He was turned round, looking up.

“World’s worst timing, Sherlock,” he shouted. “Too bloody late.” He turned and headed down the steps.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs to block his way, one hand on the bannister, the other against the wall. “We have to talk.”

“Get out of my way.”

“Not until we talk.” She wondered if he could smell the whiskey on her breath.

“John,” Sherlock said from the top of the stairs. “You’re acting irrationally.” His voice was low and shaky.

She kept her voice as calm as she could manage. “Actually, John, I think it’s perfectly rational to be angry, to want to confront Mary and make her tell you the truth.”

She was rewarded with a withering stare.

“Let me pass.” He huffed with frustration. “Now.”

“No. Look, no matter how pissed you are at him, at me, at Mary, you can’t go off like this. Are you trying to get me killed?” Melodramatic, she knew, but not totally farfetched. Sherlock had the scars to prove it.

“A bit low, don’t you think? Even for a copper?” He shook his head and sagged down on the steps.

She let go of the bannister. “We both know I can’t really stop you. Not forever. Probably not even for an hour. But we need to talk about what will happen if you show up and throw Moriarty in Mary’s face.”

“She’s my wife.”

“And you’re a self-righteous bastard who can’t make up his mind who he wants to be with. Your wife shoots your boyfriend and she’s still your wife. How does that work exactly?” She regretted the words the moment she said them. She was supposed to be calming him down, not pissing him off.

“He’s not my – it’s complicated.”

She threw up her hands. “God, how does he stand it?” She realized that Sherlock had gone very quiet. “Sherlock?”

When there was no answer, she leaned down and grabbed John by the arm. “You need to go upstairs and make sure he’s all right.”

She saw him hesitate, but he stood and turned back to face the stairs. “Sherlock?” he shouted. When Sherlock didn’t answer, he swore loudly and took the stairs two at a time. “Sherlock!”

He made it to the top a millisecond before she did.

“Goddammit,” she muttered when she saw.

Sherlock lay crumpled on his side on the floor outside the door, one side of his face painted the colour of blood. Only it wasn’t paint, was it?

John knelt down and leaned over Sherlock. He lifted one of Sherlock’s hands and felt for a pulse. She saw something like a ghost pass over John’s face.

“Should I call 911?” she asked him.

He looked confused. “Oh, you mean 999. No, not yet.” He lifted Sherlock’s head and felt for what was causing the bleeding. “He’s got a gash on the side of his head – more blood than real damage, I’d wager.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and squinted at John. “Decided to stay?” He tried to sit up, but John held him down with one hand against his shoulder.

“You’re going to have buy Mrs. Hudson a new carpet. What happened?”

He touched his forehead. “If the blood is any indication, it appears I’ve cut my head.”

“That’s the result. What happened?”

“I was standing and then I wasn’t. I must have hit my head on the door jamb on my way down.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Of course it bloody hurts. Everything hurts. Help me up.”

John took one arm and Kate ducked under the other shoulder and they carried/dragged a shaky Sherlock to the couch. John walked into the bathroom and came out with towels and a first aid kit.

“I bet you’ve got your money’s worth out of that.”

John ignored her and set the kit on the coffee table, opened it and busied himself with unwinding gauze and ripping pieces of tape. Kate saw that his hands were trembling and she knew they were as far from okay as possible.

Sherlock grabbed a pillow and curled himself around it. Kate stood watching, not quite sure of her role in this little domestic drama.

“Scissors, “John barked and held out his hand.

Kate jumped a bit at his tone. Looked down into the kit. No scissors.

“Scissors, now.”

Kate just stared at him. “Saying it twice won’t make them appear. Where do you keep scissors?”

“Left cupboard, third drawer down,” Sherlock voice was raspy. “Ouch, that hurts.”

“Hold still. I’m going to put in a stitch.”

“No, you are not.”

“Then it will get infected and you will die.” John pressed an alcohol swab against Sherlock’s head. “And you’ll have a scar.” John laid his hand on Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock put his hand over John’s. “No scars, John.”

A smile slipped across John’s face. “What I thought. Now hold still.”

Kate rolled her eyes. If this were a novel, she’d toss it against the wall because it was too ridiculous. She turned and walked into the kitchen. Found the scissors under a box of microscope slides and a badge case. She opened the case. _Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade_. She wondered if Lestrade knew Sherlock had his credentials. She wondered why she didn’t walk downstairs, hail a cab, and catch the next flight out of Heathrow. _Oh yeah, her career._

She walked back into the room and handed John the scissors. He took them and turned his attention to Sherlock. He quickly stitched the gash and covered it with gauze and tape. He shined a light into Sherlock’s eyes and grabbed his wrist, checking his pulse. Pressed the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re warm. Maybe we should restart the antibiotics.”

“For god’s sake, John, just give me the shot.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

“I can’t – I need you awake for a few hours. Nothing stronger than paracetamol.” John picked up the needle and the tape and put them back in the kit.

“I don’t have concussion. My brain is in stellar shape. Ask me anything.”

“Were you always such a complete ass, or did I never notice?”

“There is no good answer to that.”

“Sure there is. The fact you don’t know the answer only proves my point.”

“This is your childish way of punishing me, isn’t it? I won’t beg for it, you know.”

“Yes, you will.” John gave Sherlock a look that was almost a smile and Kate knew they weren’t talking about morphine any longer. Sherlock’s tumble on the landing and the blood and that long moment between scared to death and just scared had done what an hour of talking could never do.

“Let’s get through the next few hours. If you don’t show any signs of concussion, you’ll get the morphine. Otherwise, you’re going straight to A&E.”

Kate watched from what even she was now calling Sherlock’s chair. Dug her phone out of her pocket. Read the text.

“Fucking hell.” She stared at the screen. “Fucking, fucking son of a bitch . . .”

She looked up and saw both John and Sherlock staring at her. “Oh, sorry.”

“Bad news?” Sherlock held John’s hand away from his head. “Some hockey score not to your liking?”

Kate took a breath. “Sorry – it’s nothing.” If nothing was the fact that in some misguided grand gesture of . . . She looked at the screen again.

_Heathrow – Air Canada 3112 – 9pm. Fancy a cuppa?_ Chloe had the worst timing. How was she supposed to solve this case, avoid an assassination _and_ make up with her girlfriend? She shoved the phone back in her pocket. _One thing at a time, Kate._

John walked into the kitchen, washed his hands. Reached under the sink and pulled out a bottle. Splashed some quickly into two glasses, walked over and sat opposite her in his chair.

Kate took the glass and held it in her hands. Stared at it. Looked up at John, who was looking at Sherlock, who was looking at her. Great. “So I guess this is the part where you two genius detectives tell me the plan.”

John frowned. “What plan?”

“The plan that lets me write up this mess in a way that doesn’t get me fired or killed by your wife.” She laid the glass on the table without taking a sip.

“Killed? Don’t you think you’re overreacting . . .” John leaned up in the chair.

Kate nodded toward Sherlock. “Am I overreacting?”

“Christ.” John drained his glass. “Sherlock, a little help here.”

“I need a shot. I will be happy to discuss how this works but only after a shot. I can’t think.”

“In an hour. And a half-dose. Take the edge off without putting you to sleep. Deal?”

“Half an hour.”

“Fine. Half an hour.”

They all stared at the clock on the mantle.

After ten minutes, John moved to sit by Sherlock on the couch, Kate went to the washroom, and Mrs. Hudson brought up a large tray of tiny sandwiches that looked as if they’d been made for, and possibly by, children.

After twenty minutes, Sherlock had nudged John off the couch so he could lie down, sideways facing the wall, his knees pulled up against his chest like a small boy.

After thirty minutes, Sherlock turned and held out one arm. “Now, John. All of it.” And with far less bravado, he added, “Please.”

“Yeah, all right.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock felt well enough to use the toilet and change his blood-stained t-shirt. He walked back from the bedroom, leaning heavily against John, and settled into his chair. John grabbed a bottle of Evian from the fridge, opened it and set it on the table beside Sherlock.

“I’d rather have the brandy.” He pointed to Kate’s untouched glass.

“No bloody chance. You’re dehydrated and refuse to eat anything but the occasional biscuit, which is no doubt why you collapsed. So drink it.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and John added, “If you want your next dose anytime today.”

Sherlock drank. He wiggled the empty bottle at John, who took it from him and set it on the desk, and moved to his chair. Sherlock sighed and looked at Kate, who sat on the couch (which she was now beginning to think of as the balcony seats), and wished for a Diet Pepsi.

Sherlock sat straighter in his chair. “There are seven possible outcomes to this plan. Each with its own probability.”

“Sherlock,” John warned. “Don’t.”

“Only seven?” Kate looked at her watch. “Give ’em to me then.”

“John’s military background, although useful on countless occasions, can be an impediment during this initial planning stage.” Sherlock frowned and touched his forehead. “Do you think these stitches are too tight?”

“Maybe your head’s just too big,” John snapped.

Sherlock ignored him and continued. “He’s trained to look for the quick in and out. A coup de main, if you will. A swift and lethal response when a more measured approach is called for.”

“You’re talking about my wife.” John’s face reddened.

Sherlock never took his eyes off Kate. “My main objective was, and is, to keep John safe.”

“I’m sitting right here.”

“And there is precious little that I won’t do to obtain that objective.”

Kate squirmed under Sherlock’s stare. She felt like this was somehow all her fault. She didn’t like it. “And how’s that working out so far, eh?”

John stood and walked toward the kitchen.

“John,” Kate called after him. “I’m sorry, but come on – if I didn’t figure it out first, someone else will. Maybe someone already has and I’m doing you both a favour.”

“John, sit down,” Sherlock said.

John turned, his hands fisted at his side, his chest heaving. He spoke soft and low. “Unless one of you says something, _anything_ that makes bloody sense, that actually points to a way out of this, I am going to see my wife.” He held up his hand as both Kate and Sherlock opened their mouths. “No, you don’t get to talk. It’s my life, Sherlock. My wife. I have to fix this somehow. My way. I have to . . .”

“It’s our life,” Sherlock said.

Both Kate and John looked at Sherlock.

“Our life, John. Plural. Whether or not you choose to acknowledge it. Mary never changed that. No matter how hard you pretended otherwise. You know my feelings.”

Kate rolled her eyes. She was going to die in London. Probably in this flat. Probably on this couch. Just because these two idiots kept confusing actual life threatening situations with the plot of a regency romance novel. She looked up and John had crossed the room and was standing above Sherlock’s chair.

“So what are we going to do?” John said quietly.

“I was trying to tell you.” Sherlock reached for John’s arm, but John twisted away and sat back down in his chair.

“So, tell me.”

Sherlock sighed. Rubbed his head. “First we must all agree that the most important part of this plan – any plan – is that Mary not know about Inspector-“

“Kate – please, just say Kate.”

“Must not know about Kate – her presence in London.” Sherlock sat up a bit straighter. “The second aspect is that you, John, must move back in with Mary.”

Both John and Kate stood and spoke at the same time.

“Are you bloody kidding me? You just said you wanted to keep me safe –“

“Really? This is your plan – Jesus, this is -“

Sherlock closed his eyes and continued speaking in a low voice. “It is imperative that Mary believes that her secrets are safe, that you have forgiven her.”

“Not bloody likely.” John spit out the words. “I can’t . . .”

“I will supply Kate with enough information for her investigation – I believe I can point her toward Moriarty’s source in her MP’s murder – so she can go home. She will leave any reference to Anna Ashcroft’s current whereabouts out of her report.”

Kate shook her head. “And what about you?” She looked at Sherlock. “And what about the next person who comes through that door with information about Mary? It’s going to happen sooner or later. What are you going to do then?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Bent over and rested his elbows on his knees. “Something about a bridge, crossing a bridge . . . John, another shot please.”

Kate watched John’s anger drain from his face and he knelt in front of Sherlock. “What is it?”

He put his hand on Sherlock’s knee and Sherlock leaned his head against John’s shoulder. John rubbed Sherlock’s back and said something Kate couldn’t understand. Sherlock murmured something back and suddenly Kate became very aware that she was superfluous. She watched as John nodded and carefully pushed Sherlock back in his chair and stood.

“He needs to rest.”

There was no answer. It was not a request. It was a dismissal.

Kate weighed her options. Stand and argue. Nothing had been decided. The minute she left, John could be out the door to Mary and she’d be dead before morning. But she watched as John took the syringe and gave Sherlock a shot, rubbing his arm, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He wasn’t going anywhere.

She looked at her watch. 5PM. Wondered how long it took to get to the airport from here. She would need an ATM. And roses. This trip was going to bankrupt her. She made a decision, collected her purse and briefcase, and walked down the stairs and out the door.

The black sedan was still parked in front of 221B. She’d noticed it earlier when she’d looked out the window while waiting for Sherlock to change. As she closed the door behind her, the back door of the sedan opened and a man – tall, well-dressed, familiar – stepped out.

“Inspector Bryant? Might I have a word? In private?”

“Oh, for crying out loud.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to peg22 for all her help with this chapter. I have a habit of writing myself into corners and she always helps me find the way out.


	5. Everybody knows that you love me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a decision. Mycroft makes an appearance.
> 
>  
> 
> _In the near darkness, he could see Sherlock was still asleep, sprawled out, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. He coughed and half-turned onto his side, and his face looked calm and for a moment John let himself forget everything bad that had ever happened to them. ___

“Is Kate still downstairs?” John asked.

“Heavens, no. She left almost an hour ago,” Mrs. Hudson said. She was collecting the dirty cups and glasses and plates scattered about the flat. “How is he?” She glanced down the hall toward the bedroom. “He gave me quite a fright. You both did. So much carrying on.”

“He’s sleeping.” He picked up a plate. “I can do the washing up.”

She paused, a cup and saucer in one hand, and looked at him. “Yes, all right.” She handed him the dishes and her expression changed, hardened somehow and for a moment he imagined he saw a different Mrs. Hudson, the one who hadn’t always been a kind landlady. “You’d do well to clean up all your messes, young man.”

He knew she wasn’t referring to the dirty dishes. “Well, yes. Of course.” He felt like a schoolboy caught cheating. “I’m trying.”

“Good.” Her features softened, and her hand went to her hair, smoothing it. “Listen to me, going on about things I’m sure I know nothing about. I best be off.”

He set the dishes on the table and kissed her quickly on the cheek – she reminded him of his mother sometimes, the fussing, the endless pots of tea, the backbone of steel. Only his mother never once smelled like weed.

He was grateful for the washing up. It gave him a chance to think about something besides the soap opera that passed for his life lately. If Kate had accomplished nothing else, she’d made him see how completely fucked up it all was. He’d been pretending – to himself, to Mary, to Sherlock, that they could continue living in this bubble indefinitely. He needed to make a decision.  

After everything was washed and dried and put away, the floor swept, a week’s worth of newspapers collected and arranged on the floor by Sherlock’s chair, he climbed the stairs to his own room. He wanted to lie down, close his eyes and sleep for a very long time.

The room depressed him. The bed was unmade, the old blanket and single pillow lay across the sheets like an afterthought. After Sherlock had died (John had never learned how to switch out “died” for “fallen” in his head), he’d stripped the walls, packed his boxes, drawn the curtains. Moving back into this room had left him with the odd feeling of falling back in time. Back to the wrong time.

Truth was, in those final awful/amazing months, he’d spent most of his nights in Sherlock’s bed, not this one. They’d danced around the truth for more than a year before they finally found themselves where everyone else thought they’d been all along. And because it had been so long in coming, so hard won, John had made the same mistake that all romantics do. He thought it would last forever.

And eighteen months later he met Mary. She had pursued John with a devotion that both flattered and frightened him. She was funny and smart and sexy. She learned quickly when to hover, when to let him be, and made room in their lives for his grief. She made it easy for him to love the person she was pretending to be.

After Sherlock was shot (he was fond of this particular passive tense, to think of that night as when Mary shot Sherlock felt too much like his own heart was being torn in two), he moved back to Baker Street and into his old room.

He’d told Mary he needed to take care of Sherlock, he needed time to think. She said she understood. She said she would wait. That the baby was teaching her to be patient. She told him she loved him. She told him she was sorry. He’d wanted her to be more specific, but the words had caught in his throat like shards of glass. She sent him an envelope every fortnight now – copies of the bank statements, bills she’d paid, bills he needed to pay, the baby’s first scan. Too early to tell the sex. Too late to consider an abortion. Cancelled cheques were his only form of communication.

No one had mentioned Magnussen, although no one was naïve enough to believe it was over. John thought of these past few months like half-time, each team strategizing how to approach the final period. And now there was Kate Bryant, wandering onto the pitch with no clue about the dangerous game being played there.

He changed into a clean jumper and went downstairs. Washed his face, combed his hair, brushed his teeth. He kicked off his slippers, and walked barefoot down the hallway towards Sherlock’s room. In the near darkness, he could see Sherlock was still asleep, sprawled out, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. He coughed and half-turned onto his side, and his face looked calm and for a moment John let himself forget everything bad that had ever happened to them.

He pulled off his jumper and trousers, lifted the sheet and slid into that familiar space, the one place he’d ever been truly happy. Sherlock sighed and said his name, and John turned and laid his palm against Sherlock’s back, rested his left foot against Sherlock’s ankle. He felt himself drifting into sleep and chose not to fight it. Later he and Sherlock would talk and argue and plan and in the end, he’d agree to whatever daft scheme Sherlock came up with. He always did. He knew now that he’d wasted months trying to make a choice that had been made a long time ago.

//

The sedan reminded her of the Tardis. Bigger and fancier on the inside.

The well-dressed man (he’d yet to introduce himself) tapped the dark glass that separated them from the driver and the car pulled away smoothly from the curb.

“Inspector, didn’t your mother ever teach you that it is unwise to get into cars with strangers?”

“Yeah, but you’re not exactly a stranger, are you, Mr. Holmes?”

Surprise flickered across his face. “Then you know why we need to talk.”

“I have no idea. But I’m sure it will involve more tea.”

“You are a terrible liar, Inspector.”

“I’m actually an excellent liar. But I really have no idea why you want to talk to me. Or why we have to have this conversation here. Unless this is a kidnapping. Are you kidnapping me, Mr. Holmes?”

“Hardly,” he said. “We almost never kidnap anyone anymore.” He smoothed an invisible wrinkle in his trousers. “Shall I get to the point?”

“Go for it,” she said with more bravado than she felt.

“You will wrap up this little investigation of yours and go home. Surely there must be a miscreant moose somewhere in Canada that needs your attention.”

She leaned forward and tapped on the glass, trying to get the driver’s attention. “Stop the car.” She looked at Mycroft. “This is bullshit. Stop the damn car.”

“He can’t hear you.”

She reached for the door handle and tugged it. The door was locked. “Goddamn it.” She leaned back in the leather seat. Crossed her arms. Uncrossed them when she realized she looked like a petulant teenager. Tried not to punch Mycroft in his self-satisfied pasty English face. “OK, you win. Go for it.”

“Your investigation into the murder of Peter Goodale has led you down a dangerous path. Mary Morstan is – ”

“How the hell do you know about that? Did Sherlock –”

“—not to be approached. Her name will not appear in any report.”

“She shot Sherlock. Why doesn’t anyone care about that?”

“My brother is reckless.”

She felt a surge of pity for Sherlock. “Why are you protecting her? I can’t imagine you’re doing this for John.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Dr. Watson has nothing to do with this.”

“Then why is no one arresting her? Attempted murder is still a crime here, isn’t it? Not to mention all the jobs she did for Moriarty.”

Mycroft sighed the sigh of a brilliant man surrounded by idiots. “Mary Morstan did not work exclusively for James Moriarty. Over the years, she accepted other freelance assignments. Usually for private contractors, and less frequently for government agencies that needed to distance themselves from actual events.”

“Is that your fancy-assed way of saying the British government didn’t want to get its hands dirty?”

Apparently the man never answered a question. “Her name was not always Mary Morstan. Since there had never been a reason to us to meet, we – I – did not make the connection until it was too late.”

“So you’re afraid if she’s arrested, she’ll talk. I can’t believe I’m going to ask this, but why haven’t you –” She hadn’t seen enough James Bond movies for this conversation. “—do what you people do? Remove her?”

“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. Someone else knows Mary Morstan’s history. Names, dates, locations. Someone in a position to do a great deal of damage.”

“So this has nothing to with John and Sherlock?”

“Only peripherally. Although my brother will always assume that he is the epicentre of any situation.”

Kate leaned back against the leather. Closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Her head hurt. She believed Mycroft – mostly – but it still didn’t make sense. She was missing something. The night Mary shot Sherlock – no one talked about that . . .

Mycroft was still talking. “So we have an understanding then.” It wasn’t a question. It was never a question.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes. Fine.”

“Excellent.” He reached in his jacket pocket and handed her an envelope. “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging your flight home. You will leave tomorrow morning.”

The car pulled up in front of her hotel. “Have a pleasant evening, Inspector Bryant.”

She picked up her briefcase and purse, and opened the car door. She stepped out and watched the car pull away. “And fuck you too, Mycroft Holmes.” She retrieved her phone from her purse and scanned her contacts. She dialed the number quickly.

“Yeah?”

“Greg? It’s Kate. Kate Bryant.”

“Everything all right?”

“Not exactly. Look, it’s too hard to explain on the phone. Can you pick me up at my hotel? I need to ask you some questions. About the night Sherlock was shot.”

There was a silence and Kate knew he was working out an answer. “Yeah, all right,” he said finally. “Give me half an hour.”

“Thanks. I’ll be downstairs.”

In the lobby, she bought two cans of Diet Pepsi and a chocolate bar. She had a little more than three hours before Chloe landed. She needed to change and fix her hair. She needed to think.

She dropped the envelope into the garbage can by the elevator.  



	6. Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Sherlock, promise me something,” John said._
> 
> _“What?”_
> 
> _“Promise me this plan of yours will work.”_
> 
> _“I promise.”_
> 
> _“You can’t possibly promise something like that. You don’t even have a plan yet.”_
> 
> _“But you just asked me to.”_
> 
> _John sighed. “I know. I was just hoping hearing you say it would make me feel better.” ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to peg22. For listening, for reading, for filling the empty spaces.

Kate emptied her purse onto the hotel bed looking for the small white pill. The one she’d stolen from her mother’s medicine cabinet last week. Where did she put it? She tipped out all the change in her wallet, a heavy mix of British and Canadian coins, and there it was – a little dirty, but still in one piece. 0.25mg of Xanax goodness. She’d been saving it for an emergency, but never imagined she’d need it because her girlfriend had decided to make the ridiculously romantic gesture of flying three thousand miles to save their relationship. In the middle of a case. In the middle of _this_ case.

She should have stolen the whole bottle.

She swallowed the Xanax with the rest of the Diet Pepsi. Took a long breath and stared at herself in the dresser mirror. She retrieved her brush from the pile on the bed, and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Brushed her teeth. Put on some blush and lip gloss. Picked up the mascara (she’d stolen that from Chloe), stared at it, and put it back. Who was she kidding? She didn’t wear mascara for anyone. Changed her shirt (twice), her pants (once) and tried (unsuccessfully) to shake the wrinkles out of her jacket. Spent ten minutes trying to tie a silk scarf to look as if it had naturally fallen that way.

The effect was casual chic. She hoped.

Her phone rang. For a moment she thought it might be Chloe, saying she wasn’t coming after all, and Kate didn’t know whether she’d be disappointed or relieved. Probably both. But it was Greg calling from the bar in the lobby.

“You weren’t outside, so I decided to park the car. We can talk here as well as anywhere.” He sounded annoyed. 

“Sorry. I’ll be down in a minute.”

She threw everything back in her purse, found the room key and headed downstairs.

Greg was sitting at a table in the corner, one hand wrapped around a half-empty pint of beer. A second full glass sat next to it. His phone was on the table and he was scrolling down the screen with one finger.

He stood when she got to the table. Pulled out her chair for her. “I ordered you a pint,” he said. “Hope that’s all right.”

“Sure. Thanks.” She took a sip. Not Molson. Not cold. Not good. “It’s good,” she lied. “Different.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

She laughed and took another sip. Not as bad as she thought. “You’re the second person in an hour to tell me that.” 

“Really? And the first?”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

He sat back. “Bloody hell, how did that happen?”

“You know him?” Before he could answer, she added, “Of course you know him. Our little visit was . . . interesting. I got the distinct impression he sees himself as Sherlock’s keeper.”

“He does. Did. At least until John came along, anyway.”

“What’s his deal? Some secret government agency?” She ran one finger around the rim of her glass.

“I don’t ask. Mycroft and I don’t do a lot of talking.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face and she saw his cheeks colour.

She tried not to let her surprise show. She took another drink, then leaned forward across the table, “Seriously? Mycroft Holmes?”

Greg shrugged. “You said you had questions, Kate. About Sherlock.”

Kate took another drink. This was the part she wasn’t sure about. How much did she trust Greg Lestrade? He’d been straight with her – as far as she knew. And what she knew for sure could fit in a goddamn teacup. This case was a giant knot and she still hadn’t figured out who was at the centre of it. And if he and Mycroft Holmes were – well, whatever they were. . . She decided to throw it all up in the air and see where it landed.

“I told you what I want to know – the night Sherlock—”

“Yeah, got that one – the night he was shot. I just thought you’d have more specific questions.” Greg loosened his tie and sat back. Waited.

“They taught us that, too.” Kate smiled. “Make the suspect feel at ease, like you’ve got all the time in the world.”

Greg smiled and sat up straighter. “It works. Usually.”

“So?”

Greg pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. “Here. The only copy of the only report.” He slid it across the table. “I’ll need it back, though.”

Kate unfolded the paper and saw that it was an incident report. Similar to the hundreds she’d filled out in her career. Only this one looked like a child had taken a black marker to it.

 _Call to 999 was received at 19:35 from inside the CAM Global News building on Ropemaker Street, London EC2. Male victim, identified as . . ._ (the name was redacted) _with GSW to chest was transported to A &E, St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Second victim. . _. (also redacted) _with head trauma declined treatment and transport_. _No weapon found at the scene. No suspect identified by either victim. File transferred to_ (redacted) _at request of . . ._ The rest of that line was blacked out. _No further investigation required_. She looked up at Greg. “And?”

“And, you know the rest.”

The rest. Loaded sentence in this town. “So, Sherlock got shot at CAM – I recognize that name.” She sifted through a maze of vague memories until she found the right one. “I saw a story about the CEO on CBC last year. How he was giving Rupert Murdoch a run for his money. Michealson?”

“Close. Magnussen. Charles Magnussen.”

“What was Sherlock doing there?”

“A case, I reckon.” 

“You reckon? Jesus, you are full of information. Who was the second victim?”

He stared into his glass and Kate thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Magnussen.”

What had Mycroft said? _Someone else knows Mary Morstan’s history. Names, dates, locations. Someone in a position to do a great deal of damage._ Was the someone else Magnussen? If he’d threatened to expose Mary, she wasn’t likely to sit back and do nothing. But where did Sherlock fit in? It couldn’t be as simple as Sherlock being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Didn’t Mycroft tell you any of this?” Greg took another drink of his beer. Looked at his phone.

“What do you think?” Kate tried to not let her irritation show. “He gave me a ride around the park and a plane ticket home.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “He can be . . . a bit dramatic.”

“Must run in the family.” Kate sighed. “This is crazy. You’re all so busy trying to protect each other and yet she . . .” Kate watched Greg’s eyes grow wide. “Sherlock’s trying to protect John. Mycroft’s trying to protect Sherlock. And Mary apparently. Who are you trying to protect? Mycroft?”

“Mycroft Holmes can take care of himself.” Greg leaned forward. “Listen, Kate, it’s complicated . . .” He shook his head. “Sod it, I’m trying to protect _you_. Take whatever information Sherlock gave you about Moriarty and go home. Forget about Mary Morstan.”  
 

Kate’s phone buzzed. Which just made her more angry. She glanced at the screen – an alert from Air Canada that Chloe’s flight was an hour late. This day was never going to end.

She stared at Greg, disappointed. “I didn’t take you for the type that gives up that easy.”

“It’s not giving up. You can’t do anything about Mary. Don’t give her a reason to do something about you.”

“Really? This is Scotland Yard’s official advice? Don’t piss off our criminals?”

His face coloured and he slammed the glass down hard on the table. “Grow up, Kate,” he said loudly enough that the couple at the next table turned to stare. “You stumbled into this mess. Only it’s not your mess, is it? It’s Sherlock’s and John’s. Let them deal with it.”

Kate leaned back, closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “I need something stronger.”

Greg nodded and pushed away from the table.

“Scotch. Neat. A double. Please.” 

He squeezed her shoulder as he passed behind her.

He brought two glasses back from the bar and set them on the table. Greg sat and stared over her head at the soccer game playing on the TV in the corner. She stared into her glass and said nothing. After a few minutes, the scotch began to warm the places that Mycroft Holmes had turned cold. Greg was right – she would never have enough evidence to prove Anna Ashcroft had anything to do with Goodale’s murder. She should take what Sherlock had offered – the evidence of the wire transfers – and go home. Clearing the high profile murder of an MP would finally get her that transfer to Toronto. Plus a commendation from the PM, most likely. What was wrong with that? She swallowed the rest of the scotch and made a decision.

She’d pick up Chloe at the airport, take her back to the hotel and propose to her. Get down on one fucking knee if she had to. She’d marry her and move to Toronto and make babies and live happily ever after. Leave Sherlock and John and Mary and Mycroft fucking Holmes to work out their own problems.

It was a sensible plan from whichever way she looked at it. Greg was right. She needed to grow up, accept that she couldn’t win every battle, no matter how right she was.

“How do I get to Heathrow from here?”

“Now? Just like that?” He looked pleased, like he’d just won the office pool.

“Sorry to disappoint you. I have to meet my girlfriend. She’s coming in tonight at 10. But you’re right about the case. I’ll get the details about the wire transfers from Sherlock tomorrow and head home in a day or so. It’ll have to be enough.”

“I’ll drive you,” he offered. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.” 

She wondered how long it would take him to tell Mycroft she was leaving. “You’re sure?”

“Why not?”

“Okay. Let me pay for the drinks then.”

On the way to the car, Kate asked, “I don’t suppose you know any jewelry stores that are still open? And roses, I definitely need roses.” 

 

Greg knew someone who knew someone who called in a favour and an hour later, she’d maxed out her credit card on an engagement ring. You needed to squint to see the diamond, but imagining it on Chloe’s finger made her feel all squishy and more than a little giddy. They picked up a dozen roses at the shop in the lobby – yellow – Chloe’s favourite.

Greg kept up a steady stream of small talk all the way to the airport. The engagement ring had made him nostalgic. He told her how he’d proposed to his first wife, who was in love with all things Scottish, on a trip to Edinburgh. How she proved it two years later when she left him for the new office manager at the insurance company where she worked. He had transferred to London from Inverness and had a brogue so thick, every time he spoke, Greg expected to see sub-titles running across his chest.

“She was always after me to wear a bloody kilt,” he said. “Amazing the barmy things you do when you’re in love.”

“And wife number two?” People only referred to their ex-wife as their first wife if she were followed soon after by a second. “How did you propose?”

“Over dinner in a posh restaurant. Very grown up. Very sensible. She was everything Denise wasn’t. Which was a good thing.” He paused. “For a while, anyway.”

“And now?”

“Now I have a daughter. Who deserves a father who can manage to get her bike fixed before she outgrows it.”

“And Mycroft?”

He laughed. “I have no idea. You might say I scratch his itch. And some nights, when he’s feeling generous and no new wars have broken out, he scratches mine. Nothing more to it than that.”

Kate wasn’t sure whether she believed him. Whether he believed it himself. She checked the time. Fifteen minutes until the flight landed. “Are we almost there?”

“Yeah, ten minutes at the most.”

She turned to look at him. She really didn’t know him, but she was going to miss him. Holding a bouquet of roses in her lap had made her sentimental. “Thank you. For all of this.”

A few minutes later, he pulled up in front of international arrivals. She leaned across the seat and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Wish me luck.”

“She’s a very lucky girl, your Chloe. Tell her I said so.”

“I will. At least once a day. Good-bye, Greg.”

She stepped out of the car and closed the door behind her. She hurried inside the crowded terminal to find Chloe.

**** 

 

It was dark when John woke up. He turned to check the time. 9:30. 

He’d slept for almost four hours. In Sherlock’s bed. Not that Sherlock had noticed.

 _Fuck_. Sherlock. He was supposed to be watching for signs of concussion, not letting him sleep for four hours.

He felt a hand on his chest.

“Stop thinking.” Sherlock sighed and pulled the sheet off his chest. “I need a shot.”

John turned and felt Sherlock’s head. The stitches had held. “How do you feel?”

“Like I need a shot.”

“Are you in pain? Does your head hurt?” John lifted himself onto an elbow, laid his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “Dizzy?”

Sherlock brushed John’s hand away. “I’m fine.” He struggled to swing his legs off the bed. “I require a cup of tea and a shot of morphine.”

John got out of bed and turned on the floor lamp. The pale yellow light threw long shadows across the floor. “I’ll get your tea. Stay there.” He reached down on the floor for his trousers. He turned and saw Sherlock watching him.

"What?”

“You were in bed with me.”

“Yeah . . .”

Sherlock frowned. Pressed his hand to the bandage on his forehead. “My head hurts.”

“Let me look.” John slipped into his trousers and came around the bed. “Don’t touch the stitches.” He reached for Sherlock’s head and Sherlock grabbed his hand. 

“You were in bed with me.” 

John tried to pull his hand away, but Sherlock held tight. John sighed. “Maybe I was making sure you were okay.” 

“Maybe?” 

John gave up the struggle and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand still held in Sherlock’s. “What do you want, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock scooted over a bit, giving John more room. He pulled John’s hand to his chest. “In order? Morphine, tea, maybe a biscuit . . .” 

John felt Sherlock’s heart beating under his hand. He could see the smile hovering around Sherlock’s face. He didn’t know whether they were actually going to have a real discussion, or if Sherlock was playing with him. 

“I wasn’t finished.” 

“Course not.” 

“You were in bed with me.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m beginning to think you do have concussion. You keep repeating the same thing over and over.” 

“It’s a significant thing. Worth repeating.” 

John bowed his head. Closed his eyes. Sighed. He didn’t want to play this game. The events of the past few days – months – had crushed him. Again and again. He didn’t think he had the strength. “Please, don’t,” he whispered. 

Sherlock let go of his hand. Reached up and wrapped his hand around his neck and pulled him down, kissing him lightly on the lips. John pulled back and Sherlock caressed his cheek. Ran his thumb across John’s lips. “Sorry.” 

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock. “It’s just . . .” 

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand again, held it to his chest. “I know.” He lifted John’s hand to his lips. Kissed his palm. 

John felt the kiss down to his toes. “Sherlock, I don’t think . . .” 

Sherlock looked at John. “The problem is you _do_ think. Too much.” 

John pulled his hand away. “ _I_ think too much?” 

“You’re making yourself miserable, and by extension, me.” 

“Oh, now I’m making you miserable?” John stood. “I think I should go make tea.” 

Sherlock sighed. “John, please. I’m just trying to tell you I understand.” 

“What do you understand, Sherlock? Do you understand how insane all this is? Not only did my pregnant wife shoot my . . . you . . . but now we find out she was probably fucking Moriarty? And god knows what else – Christ, for all we know she was at the bloody swimming pool, hell, she was probably the one who was going to put a bullet through my head if you didn’t jump . . . Kate is right – this is so fucked up.” 

While John talked, Sherlock had slowly pulled himself up and off the bed. He grabbed John’s shoulders. “Stop it.” He pulled John close, wrapping his arms around him. “The only thing that matters is our plan,” Sherlock whispered against John’s head. “We will find a way through this, John.” 

John stayed against Sherlock’s chest for a moment, letting his heart slow down a bit. It was just too much. He pulled his head away and looked at Sherlock. “Promise me something.” 

“What?” 

“Promise me this plan of yours will work.” 

“I promise.” 

“You can’t possibly promise something like that. You don’t even have a plan yet.” 

“But you just asked me to.” 

John sighed. “I know. I was just hoping hearing you say it would make me feel better.” He leaned in and kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. “I can’t remember, was it tea and then morphine or morphine and then tea?” John walked toward the door. 

There was a smile growing on Sherlock’s face, and John felt it slide under his skin, scraping against the raw parts of him. 

Sherlock leaned back. “And biscuits, don’t forget the biscuits.” 

 

 

Sherlock claimed it was the tea, not the morphine that revived him. He wanted to stay up, so John made him comfortable on the couch and promised him the laptop in exchange for eating more than biscuits. They compromised on toast (2 pieces with butter and currant jelly), which he ate very slowly. He reminded John of a stubborn child being forced to finish his mushy peas.

John handed him the laptop when he was done and for a while, the sound of Sherlock working while he tidied the kitchen made things seem almost normal. 

Later, John stood at the window, his back to Sherlock, and stared for a long time out at the night, trying hard not to think about Mary, or Magnussen, or how his life lay in pieces at his feet. John thought of these past few months like a ball of string unravelling, falling down an endless flight of stairs. He knew now that the only way to stop it was to get ahead of it and the only way to get ahead of it was to trust Sherlock. 

He was still standing there when a cab stopped in front of 221B. A woman – familiar despite the darkness – stepped out of the back seat and slammed the door. He heard the bottom door open and close, followed by loud footsteps on the stairs. “Sherlock, I think we’ve got a visitor.” 

“I’m not taking new cases,” he answered without looking up.

John got to the door just as she started pounding on it. 

“For god’s sake, John. I’m trying to work.” 

He opened the door and Kate stormed in. Anger had turned her fine features to stone. “Which one of you two motherfuckers told Mary about me?” 

John shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to Mary in months,” he said. 

“And you?” She pointed a finger at Sherlock. “Someone told her I was here, that I was asking questions. Is this part of your great plan? Poke the sleeping tiger with a stick. Only I’m the stick, aren’t I? Is this your way of keeping things _interesting?_ Because god forbid Sherlock Holmes gets bored.” 

Sherlock closed the laptop. “I have no idea what you’re on about.” 

John stepped between them. “Sit down. I’ll make some . . .” 

“I don’t want any fucking tea! I want the truth.” Her voice cracked and for a moment John thought she was about to cry. 

“OK, no tea.” He laid a hand on her arm and she jerked away. “Just sit and tell us what’s happened.” 

She let her purse slide off her shoulder to the floor. She turned, hesitated, and sank into Sherlock’s chair. “When Chloe didn’t show up at the airport, I called her. She never left Ottawa. When I asked her if she missed her flight, she had no idea what I was talking about. Someone set me up. If it wasn’t Mary, then who the hell was it?”

 

****


	7. Everbody knows that you're in trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Kate stared at both of them. What the hell had happened here since she left? They almost looked . . . happy. They had no reason to be happy. Nothing had changed. Unless . . ._
> 
> _“Oh, for crying out loud,” she said. “You two kissed and made up, didn’t you?”_
> 
> _Sherlock blinked. Blinked again. Cleared his throat. “John and I have reached an understanding. Kissed and made up is a gross over-simplification of a complex series of –”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to peg22 for the cheerleading and handholding and for everything that matters.

“I will assume Chloe is your girlfriend, not your sister,” Sherlock said. “Siblings are usually more relieved than angry when plans are cancelled. In my case, at least.”

John shot Sherlock a warning glance.

“Maybe you should start from the beginning,” John said. He sat in his chair opposite Kate and leaned forward and she felt oddly comforted, like she was one of his patients. “Is Chloe your girlfriend?”

“Don’t answer that,” Sherlock interrupted. “I need to be in my chair for this. I can’t possibly deduce anything from this couch.” Sherlock extended a hand and waited for John to help him up. “Kate, get one of the kitchen chairs and bring it in here.” He was enjoying this a little too much. How much morphine had John given him? 

She closed her eyes and blew out a long breath. Resisted the urge to poke the bandage on Sherlock’s forehead. “Fine. But just so we’re both clear here. You’re a fucking nutcase.” She turned to John. “You do recognize that, right?” 

“Yeah, but he’s _my_ nutcase,” John said with a wide smile.

Kate stared at both of them. What the hell had happened here since she left? They almost looked . . . happy. They had no reason to be happy. Nothing had changed. Unless . . .

“Oh, for crying out loud,” she said. “You two kissed and made up, didn’t you?”

Sherlock blinked. Blinked again. Cleared his throat. “John and I have reached an understanding. Kissed and made up is a gross over-simplification of a complex series of –”

John laughed. She’d not heard that sound before. “Shut up, Sherlock.” He stood, took Sherlock’s hand and pulled him up and for a brief, stupid moment Kate thought they were going to dance. Sherlock coughed and made a great show of rearranging and retying his dressing gown before limping to his chair and sitting down.

“I’ll get a chair.” She grabbed the least uncomfortable looking one from the kitchen and dragged it noisily behind her. Set it facing their chairs and sat down. “And I _will_ punch the first person who mentions tea.”

There was a quick knock at the door and before John could get up Mrs. Hudson entered the flat, carrying a tray. She wore a flowered nightgown under a pink chenille bathrobe. Fuzzy white slippers. “Working late, are we?” she said, looking directly at Kate. It sounded vaguely like a reproach. “Thought you might like some tea.”

John took the tray from her, biting back a smile. “That’s very kind. Thank you. I hope we didn’t wake you.” He set the tray on the table beside his chair.

“Just watching telly.” She turned back to Kate. “You’ll not be keeping our Sherlock up too late, I hope.”

“I am not a child, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said.

“Of course not, dear. But you haven’t been well and –”

John took her arm and steered her towards the door. “Good night, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll keep an eye on him. No worries.” He closed the door behind her and leaned back against it.

"Thank you for your restraint,” Sherlock said to Kate.

“Yeah, you should have seen the last person who laid a hand on Mrs. Hudson . . .”

Sherlock looked longingly at the teapot. 

She threw up her hands. “Oh, for Christ’s sake – it’s already made, you might as well drink it.” 

Her anger had fizzled, giving way to something darker, more disturbing. If John and Sherlock hadn’t told anyone about the Anna/Mary/Moriarty connection, then who did? Even she didn’t know about Mary’s past until last night. If the text wasn’t from Mary, who else knew about her past? Who would want to keep Mary’s name from coming up in a murder investigation? One that could see her extradited back to Canada. 

“Where were we?” Sherlock asked between sips of tea. “Chloe is your girlfriend.” He paused and she nodded. “She led you to believe she was arriving tonight but didn’t. She claims she never sent the message. Is this correct?” 

“More or less. But if you’re insinuating she’s lying, she’s not. She wouldn’t.” 

“Everyone lies.” 

She started to say something, but he held up a hand. 

“Show me your phone,” he said. 

She bent down and picked up her purse from the floor. Retrieved the phone and entered her password. She scrolled until she found the text and handed him the phone. 

He read it out loud. “ _Heathrow. Air Canada 3112. 9pm. Fancy a cuppa?”_

Read out loud like that it sounded nothing like Chloe. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. “I am an idiot.” _An idiot with a diamond ring in my purse._  

“Most people are.” 

“Sherlock, not now,” John said. “Kate, what is it?” 

She sat up, shook her head. “I didn’t see it, I wanted to believe that she –” S _till loved me._ She paused and concentrated on breathing evenly. She was _not_ going to cry in front of Sherlock Holmes. “Chloe’s French. From Montreal. Her English is really good. Better than my French.” 

“Kudos to you both. The point?” Sherlock prompted. 

“She would never write 9pm. Quebec uses a twenty-four clock. 9pm is 21 hours – _vingt et une heures_ – to her. Always.” 

“Then we can safely conclude she didn’t send the text. But this is her number?” 

“Yes.” She knew where this going.

“Someone hacked Chloe’s phone.” John said.

“Kate’s too. Child’s play, really. The question is why?” 

John frowned. “But first shouldn’t you work out _who_?” 

“If you know why –” Kate said. 

“—you know who.” Sherlock finished. 

“It must be Mary.” Kate stood and began pacing. “If I were able to prove she had a hand in Peter Goodale’s murder, and she found out . . . we know she doesn’t react well to feeling threatened . . . Sorry, John.” 

“Sorry, _John_?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

She looked down at him. “You’re twelve, aren’t you? Only I don’t have enough evidence to tie Mary to the murder – at least not enough to get me an extradition hearing. I don’t think I ever will, but I’m prepared to live with that. I told Greg earlier that I’d take the details of the wire transfers and go home.” 

“Mary didn’t do this. She wouldn’t do this.” John sat up in the chair. 

_Really, John, you’re still defending her?_ “Why? Not in her job description?” 

Sherlock avoided looking at John. “I agree with John – Mary didn’t do this.” 

“Based on what?” Kate asked. 

“It wasn’t Mary.” Sherlock stared at a space above John’s head. 

She moved behind John’s chair. “What makes you so sure?”

“Sherlock, why are you so certain my wife wasn’t involved?” John said slowly. 

She saw Sherlock’s eyes widen and his hands still when John referred to Mary as “my wife.”   _Ouch._  

“You know my methods, John.” 

She was beginning to understand his methods too. She rocked back on her heels, thought for a second. “You’re keeping tabs on her. Cloned her phone. Probably hacked her computer too. You know she didn’t send the text because you would have seen it. ” 

“It seemed a prudent course of action in light of recent . . .” 

“You’ve been tracking my wife this whole time?” 

“I’ve been tracking the assassin who tried to kill me. The fact that she is your _wife_ is incidental.” 

Kate winced at that one. “So who, then?” 

“I vote for Mycroft.” John sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “And just how is Mary incidental?” 

“Nope. Mycroft doesn’t even make the top ten,” Kate said. 

“What do you know about my brother?” Sherlock frowned. 

“I know enough. Met him, hated him, dismissed him. Besides, he was too busy trying to get me on the next plane home.” 

John stood, walked toward the door and then back toward the kitchen. “You cloned Mary’s phone?” 

“For crying out loud, John, he’s trying to save your life.” 

Sherlock looked puzzled. “Why would Mycroft want to get you out of town? Someone like you would hardly be in his crosshairs.” 

“Gee, thanks. Apparently your brother has his own set of Mary issues –" 

John turned back to Kate. “Mary issues?” 

Kate sighed. “I can’t believe this is news to you. I’ve been in London for three days and I know more about Mary than you two. Your wife works for him, John. Or did, anyway. I didn’t get all the details, I was too busy trying to escape.” 

Sherlock watched John pace. “John.” he said quietly, “Sit down. Please.” 

John stopped and looked at Sherlock. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice rose a notch. “Why do you never tell me?” 

Kate rolled her eyes. “Hey, I have an idea – how about you two go make out some more and I’ll find a real suspect to question.” She paused, deciding how much to say. John walked to the window, turning his back to them. His face was reflected in the dark window and she saw him wipe his eyes with the heel of one hand. “What about Charles Magnussen?” she said. “I imagine he has a very thick file on Mary.” 

Sherlock had the decency to look surprised. And a little impressed. 

“You were in his building the night you were shot – my theory is that she was there to kill him and you got in the way. According to the police report, there were two victims that night – you and Magnussen. What I haven’t figured out yet is whether you knew about Mary before you went there. My guess is no.” 

“Lestrade might be wise to engage your services, Inspector,” Sherlock said with a small smile. 

“But why would Magnussen want to fuck with _me_? What he did wasn’t a threat, not really. More like trying find out what buttons he could push. But _why_?”

Sherlock shifted in his chair and winced. “He was trying to discover your pressure point,” he said after a minute. 

Kate came around and sat in John’s chair. Sherlock looked pale and in pain. “You okay? You’re sweating. Do you need a pill or something?” 

Sherlock ignored her and looked over at John. “If it is Magnussen, then we can assume he knows exactly why Kate is here.” 

John turned back from the window. “Sherlock, answer Kate – are you okay?” He walked over and laid a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. 

Sherlock brushed the hand away. “I am fine. I just need to focus.” He coughed several times, one palm pressed flat against his chest. 

“Don’t move.” John walked into the kitchen. He got a glass, filled it with water, and came back to Sherlock. “Take these.” He held out two pills. 

“No, I need to focus, John.” Sherlock winced and shifted again in his chair. He waved his hand. “I’ll take a pill later.” 

“Talk to me about this pressure point,” Kate said. John was throwing her dirty looks, obviously wanting her to wrap this up. He emptied the glass into the sink. 

“Magnussen was attempting to discover whether Chloe is your pressure point – your vulnerability – your Achilles heel. The one thing – or one person – that you would risk everything to keep safe.” 

“Let me guess. John is yours.” 

“I’m your Achilles heel now?” John frowned.

Kate threw up her hands. “Not everything is about you, John.” She turned back to Sherlock. “I need to know if you think Chloe is in danger.” 

“I don’t know. I doubt it.” Sherlock stood unsteadily. “But a timely visit to an out of town cousin may be in order.” He got as far as the fireplace, stopped and put a hand against the mantle to steady himself. He leaned forward, breathing hard. 

“Sherlock, let me take a look at you. “ John walked over to the fireplace. “You’re sweating. A lot.” 

“It’s hot.” 

“It’s November. It’s not hot. Sit down.” 

Kate stood and pulled out her cell phone, then put it away. “Can I use your phone?” 

John helped him back to his chair, retrieved Sherlock’s phone from the table in the kitchen and handed it to her. 

“If you’re wrong, Sherlock, I’m going to look like a complete ass. Again.” She punched in Chloe’s number and waited. John was right, Sherlock looked like crap. Worse than he had all day. But he had been cut in two from gunshot wounds and surgeries, so what did she know? 

She heard Chloe’s voice – voicemail. Great. So now the ridiculous message she was about to leave would be recorded forever. She hated everyone. 

“Chloe, it’s me. I’m really sorry about earlier. I promise I’ll explain everything. But right now, you need to listen. You need to . . . _tabernac_ – I love you and there’s someone who might try to do something . . . I don’t know for sure, but you need to get out of town – I know that sounds dramatic but just do as I say and go to Montreal – just until I get this figured out – visit your mother, go Christmas shopping. I’ll explain everything, I swear. Call me when you get this . . . on this number, not on my cell. Go to Montreal. And then call me. Okay, I’ll try to call you later. _Je t’aime. Salut_.” 

When she looked up, both Sherlock and John were staring at her. “What? It was voicemail – what was I supposed to say?” 

Sherlock started to speak but was interrupted by a coughing fit, more violent than the one she had witnessed the day before. John moved quickly to Sherlock’s chair, leaning over him, rubbing his back, talking calmly to him. “It’ll be okay. Just try to breathe.” 

“A glass of water, I know,” Kate said. She hurried to the kitchen to refill the glass John had just emptied. “He doesn’t sound good. I’m not a doctor, but shouldn’t he be in the –” 

Sherlock drew his legs up into the pain, moaning and twisting sideways in the chair. He held one hand against his mouth, coughing, his other arm wrapped tightly around his chest. “No hospital,” Sherlock gasped. “I can’t –”

He continued to cough, a terrible wet sound. He lowered his hand from his mouth and it came away bloody. She felt useless, standing there watching Sherlock struggling to breathe. If John didn’t call 911, she would. 

“We’re going to A&E. Now.” He turned to her. “Kate, call 999. Tell them I suspect a PE and possible DVT. It’s 221b Baker Street.” His voice was calm, controlled and she saw the army doctor he used to be. He held the glass of water up to Sherlock’s mouth. “Drink this. It will help.” 

She dialed. Gave the operator the details. Felt her own heart pounding in her chest. “They said five to ten minutes.” 

“Good. Can you get my wallet and phone from the dresser in Sherlock’s room? Grab a blanket from the bed. And a towel from the bathroom.” He bent down in front of Sherlock and took his face between both hands. “I love you. We can fix this.” He leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the forehead. 

Sherlock nodded and began to cough again, his eyes wild with pain. He took another gasping breath, closed his eyes and slumped forward.

 

 

Hospital waiting rooms were the same everywhere. Uncomfortable chairs, bad fluorescent lighting, terrible coffee. She wasn’t sure why she stayed, just a vague half-formed feeling that she shouldn’t leave John on his own. So she waited. Every half hour she’d go outside and check Sherlock’s phone for a message from Chloe. Still nothing. 

She was standing in front of a vending machine, trying to decide whether she should risk her life on either the egg or cheese sandwich when John finally appeared. “I wouldn’t. But on the plus side, you’re already in A&E.” 

She put the five pound note back in her pocket. 

“You should go back to the hotel,” John said. “Get some sleep.” 

She shook her head. “I don’t mind staying. How is he?” 

“Stable. They’ll know more in a few hours. CT scan showed multiple clots in his lungs. He’s also got a serious DVT—deep vein thrombosis – in his leg and it’s throwing off clots to his lungs. His leg has probably been hurting for days but the painkillers helped mask the symptoms.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “I’m a bloody doctor. I should have seen –” 

She laid a hand on his arm. “You saw what he wanted you to see.” 

“Probably.” He didn’t sound convinced. 

“What’s next?” 

“He’s on oxygen which is helping him breathe easier and they’re pumping him full of thrombolytics – clot busters. Anticoagulants too. If they don’t do the job, they may have to remove the biggest clots surgically. But it’s a bit dodgy doing surgery after a course of thrombolytic therapy.”

“Is he awake?” 

“Off and on. They’ve got him back on a morphine drip, so he’s not making much sense.”

“What can I do?” 

“Sit with him until I get back. As much I hate the idea, I should call Mycroft, let him know what’s happening. He can decide whether to tell their parents.” 

“Their parents? I don’t know why it seems so odd that Sherlock has parents. Everyone has parents. Are they –” She wasn’t sure how to put it.

“Completely normal, as far as I can tell.” He smiled when he saw the expression on her face. “That was my reaction too.” He cleared his throat. “They moved him upstairs to ICU. I’ll take you to him. The lift is at the end of the corridor.” 

In the elevator, John leaned back against the wall. He looked exhausted. “I can’t believe we’re back here. He was finally getting better.” 

She was quiet – anything she said would have sounded trite and facile and false. 

She hesitated outside the entrance to ICU. _It was five years ago._ _Why did it still feel like yesterday?_  

“You okay?” John asked.

“Touch of déjà vu, that’s all. I’m fine.” 

_The fifth time she tried phoning Sarah that night, a man answered._

_“Who is this?” she said, trying hard to keep the panic out of her voice._

_“My name is Will Pierce. I’m a nurse at Queensway Carleton Hospital. The phone started ringing, so I answered it.”_

_“Why is her phone at the hospital?” she said. She knew how stupid that sounded, but she needed to believe everything was all right for as long she could. “Can I speak to Sarah? I’m_ _her . . . partner.” Girlfriend always made Sarah sound like she someone she drank appletinis with._

_“I think you need to come to the hospital. She was brought in four hours ago. All she had on her was her phone.”_

_“She went for a bike ride. Is she –”_

" _If you want to see her, you need to come now. 5 th floor ICU, ask for me. Will Pierce. If she has parents, you should call them.”_

_At the hospital, the nurse led her into Sarah’s room. The woman who lay in the bed, buried beneath the bandages and tubes and wires, didn’t look anything like Sarah – and Kate wanted to laugh because it was all a stupid mistake and later she’d tell Sarah how scared she was when somehow her phone got stolen and some other girl had been attacked and the police officer said no leads and hate crime, and Sarah’s parents said Kate’s not family, we are her family and the doctor said there’s nothing more we can do, and Kate slid to the floor and listened to the beeps slow to silence._

 

Sherlock looked better than she expected. But her expectations had been low, so anything not-dead was good. 

She sat in the chair by the bed, not wanting to wake him. She was so tired, she’d been up for almost twenty hours now with not much more to eat than cookies and two chocolate bars. If she ever made it back to the hotel, she was going to order the full breakfast from room service, have a shower and sleep for twelve hours. 

To pass the time (and because she was more than a little curious) she began to scroll through Sherlock’s phone. A few pictures of the wedding. All conspicuously without Mary. No podcasts. No games. His inbox contained a few enquiries from prospective clients, the normal amount of spam, and confirmation of his latest Amazon order – all textbooks with esoteric titles, not a single bestseller among them. Her favourite was _Advanced Database Query Systems: Techniques, Applications and Technologies_. 

She kept looking but there was no sign of Mary’s texts or emails. No folder called “Clues.” She did find one called “John.” It was inside a folder named “Away” buried inside another called “Banking.” 

The folder contained twenty pictures. All of John. All from a distance, clearly all taken without John’s knowledge. John getting on a bus, John buying take-out, John walking down the street. Each was time-stamped with the date and year and she quickly recognized they had been taken while Sherlock had been what he euphemistically called “away.” The last one was a picture of John and Mary, holding hands, hailing a cab. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said quietly. “You didn’t expect that, did you?” 

She tapped on the music icon. He had several playlists, mostly classical. A genius playlist called _The Pretender_. Her mother loved Chrissie Hynde and Kate had grown up singing along to her music. She tried to open the playlist, but it prompted her for a four character password. Why would Sherlock protect his collection of Pretenders tracks? 

She yawned. Something didn’t make sense but she was too tired to try and work it out. She switched off the phone, leaned back and closed her eyes while “Don’t Get Me Wrong” played in her head. 

She sat up suddenly. The group was The Pretenders. The playlist was The Pretender. Singular. She powered up the phone again and found the playlist. Still password protected. Of course it was. 

She knew she’d only have a few tries to come up with the correct password before it locked her out. She started with the obvious. M-A-R-Y. Nothing happened. Sherlock was too clever for that. But she guessed he was a fan of hiding in plain sight. She crossed her fingers and tried again. A-G-R-A. 

The screen morphed into icons against a screenshot of the London Eye. She sat up, leaned her elbows against the arms of the chair, and went to work. She was wide awake now. She finally had something tangible to work with.   

After ten minutes, she realized that, unlike Sherlock’s, Mary’s phone was a digital filing cabinet. Hundreds of songs and pictures. Twitter, Dropbox and Facebook accounts. Forty names on her contact list. She’d completed 130 levels of Candy Crush, had downloaded every version of Angry Birds. Two episodes of _Luther_. The audiobook of _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_. Mary was a very busy woman. 

Kate sat back and started scrolling through the texts. They ran the gamut from mundane – _doctor running late_ – _appt cancelled_ – _drink your juice_ \- to the mildly interesting – _haven’t seen him – it’s complicated – come for tea_ – to the slightly more interesting – _you shouldn’t be alone – I can’t see you – you left your earrings – I have to see you._  

As she read, the picture she had of Mary Morstan, international assassin, began to change. This was a woman who was alone, scared, and having a baby on her own . . . or was she? The most interesting text had been sent to Mary yesterday morning. From the same number she’d seen over and over. _Please, baby – you have to let me help you – it’s mine, too, you know._  

She let the phone fall into her lap. She looked up at Sherlock, wound tightly in wires and tubes. She knew that if she had figured it out after twenty minutes, there was no way he hadn’t.

_Jesus, Sherlock. When were you planning on telling John?_


	8. Everybody knows what you've been through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I read Mary’s texts. All of them,” Kate said._
> 
> _He closed his eyes and there was something in his expression that made her feel like she’d just kicked a puppy. She reached out and rested one hand on his arm. She expected him to pull away, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry . . .”_
> 
> _Sherlock looked at her. “Did you tell John?” he said._
> 
> _“No. It’s not my place,” she said._
> 
> _“Nor mine.”_
> 
> _“But then he’d have a reason to leave Mary for good. He wouldn’t stay with her if he –”_
> 
> _A shadow crossed his face. “I always hoped I was reason enough. I miscalculated.” ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to peg22 for handholding, cheerleading and for pushing me in the right direction..

Kate followed the crowd up out of the Barbican Underground station and into the sunlight. Her directions said to take the 56 bus from the station, but she decided to walk – her only exercise in the last few days was moving from one chair to another. Despite the November chill, it felt good to be outside and walking. At least there was no snow here yet.

After fifteen minutes, she turned the corner and saw the hospital in front of her. She couldn’t help but look up and imagine Sherlock standing on the ledge. _How did you manage it? You must have needed help. Who cared about you enough to help you die? To keep your secret? I didn’t understand at first how could you do that to John, but I understand now. You’ll do anything to keep him safe._

She’d stayed at the hospital most of the night, until the hotel called to tell her that her room had been broken into. That was right before her boss called and reminded her she’d promised – but had failed to deliver – a full progress report. He also reminded her that he expected her and her report in the office on Monday morning – no excuses. It only gave her two days before her flight home on Sunday afternoon.

She’d retrieved her belongings from the hotel and called Greg. Nothing was missing – well, nothing except two pairs of panties. She didn’t want to think about what that meant. Greg had picked her up from the hotel, fed her a decent breakfast, and dropped her and her suitcase at 221B after a dozen sidelong glances and a few hundred words on why staying with Sherlock was a rubbish idea. How it would compromise the objectivity of her investigation . . .

“I’m not staying with him. I’m staying at his flat.” And should he really be the one lecturing her on compromising objectivity? “And it’s only for a day or two, Greg.” Kate leaned in the car window. “Until we get the rest of this mess figured out and I can go home.”

Greg rolled his eyes and pulled away from the curb. Kate stared up at the windows of the flat, hesitant to go in. Greg was right, if she crossed the threshold, she would be forever tossing her hat into the ring. She’d be firmly picking a side. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson opened the door, took her suitcase and hustled her up the stairs.

She spent the first hour wandering through the place. She picked up books, shook them, put them back. She dug through the refrigerator and found the only edible things were a wedge of cheese and a jar of pickled beets. She stood at the door to Sherlock’s room for a while, staring into the corners, wondering if Mycroft and/or Magnussen had the place bugged. She checked under the bed, behind the dresser, above the doorframe. When she was satisfied she was really alone, she stretched out on his bed and allowed all the facts to float above her head as she tried to put them in a logical order.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated and she dug it out of her pocket. Chloe. She was in Montreal with her mother – which Kate knew she would pay for later. She felt better than she had in days when she read the final bit of the text – _be careful, I love you_. She wanted to get on a plane right then – to hell with Sherlock and John and Mary and Mycroft. But as long as someone was trying to get to her through Chloe – she had to stay put. She pulled a blanket over her, yawned and closed her eyes.

_The dream was back. The one she’d had every night in those first, long months after Sarah died. In every version of the dream, she was biking with Sarah beside the canal. It was always spring because the tulips were in full bloom (sometimes yellow, sometimes pink, and after especially bad days, black). Sarah would pull ahead, then turn and laugh and tell her to try and keep up. But no matter how fast she pedaled, Kate fell further and further behind until Sarah disappeared completely. Tonight though, it wasn’t Sarah who turned back, urging her on, it was Chloe._

_“Chloe, wait for me,” Kate yelled after her. “Please don’t leave me.”_

_But it was too late. She was already gone._

 

Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with tea a few hours later and woke her up with the news that John had called and Sherlock was doing better. The doctors were now talking about non-surgical solutions. Kate sighed and popped two biscuits in her mouth at once. Mrs. Hudson clucked and handed her a takeout menu from Speedy’s.

“You need to keep your strength up, dear. You can’t live on tea and biscuits.”

Kate glanced at the menu and settled on egg salad on rye and a Diet Pepsi and tried to ignore the pressure building behind her eyes. She’d quickly gone from a comfortable seat in the balcony to centre stage in this little melodrama. She went looking for her shoes and kicked aside her messenger bag, which she had dropped by the door when she first came in. A thick file slid out onto the floor, loose papers spilling haphazardly across the carpet. A colour photo of Sarah’s smiling face stared up at her.

Sarah had always been so present, so _alive_ – no matter how hard Kate tried to move on. She knew exactly how John felt after Sherlock left. But then he’d met Mary, and she’d done for him what Chloe had done for her – she’d let the light back in. What would she have done if Sarah had miraculously reappeared? As much as she missed her, she was glad she’d never have to make that choice.

She bent down and shoved the papers back into the file. Briefly held Sarah’s photo between two fingers. There was no way she could ask for Sherlock’s help now.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated again. She looked at the text and frowned. It was from a blocked number. The message was cryptic at best _. Mama on the move. VOXcross. Noon_.

She took four aspirin, slipped on her shoes and headed downstairs to Speedy’s.

 

She followed two doctors and a nurse out of the elevator into the ICU. She heard voices coming from Sherlock’s room. She slowed down and listened. John, obviously upset. And . . . Mycroft Holmes. All syrup and snoot. She stopped just outside the door and leaned against the wall. She poked her head around and saw John standing, hands fisted at his side. Sherlock’s bed was empty; they must have taken him for another scan.

“Why are you still talking?” John’s back was tight, his shoulders high. “This has nothing to do with you.”

She could see Mycroft shake his head. “Sherlock’s obsession with Charles Magnussen must be contained. Whatever incriminating information Magnussen might have about Mary –”

John answered, his voice hard and low and full of warning. “You don’t get to talk about my wife.”

“I know my brother’s methods. Once he is clear of here, he will attempt to negotiate an exchange with Magnussen, a détente, if you will. He is working under the misguided notion that Mary matters more than –”

Kate walked a step into the room just as John snapped, snatching a handful of Mycroft’s well-pressed shirt and throwing him hard against the wall. He wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s throat and squeezed. “I told you, don’t talk about my wife.”

Mycroft could only breathe a little, but it was enough to push out the words, “Oh, do make up your mind, John.”

John dropped his hand and turned away. “Just go. Now.” He sank down into the closest seat and closed his eyes.

Kate twisted back out of the room and let Mycroft pass by her. She fought the urge to trip him, just for the sight of his smug face hitting the shiny linoleum, and walked back into the room. John was staring at a spot on the floor.

“John?” She laid a hand on his shoulder and he looked up.

“Kate. You’re back.”

“Yeah, I thought maybe I could convince you to go home. Get some sleep.” She looked him over. “You’re starting to look a little ragged round the edges. Where is he, by the way?”

“They’ve taken him for another CT. I should stay until he gets back –”

She shook her head, “You should go. Mrs. Hudson told me they were moving him out of ICU later today. I think he can manage without you for a while. I don’t mind staying.” She held out one hand, “Come on, old man. Go home.”

He took her hand and stood. “Yeah, all right. Thanks.”

“I’ll call if anything changes.”

“Do you need my mobile number?”

“No, I still have Sherlock’s phone.” She smiled. “I’m pretty sure your number’s in there.”

He was halfway to the door when he turned back. “Any word from Chloe?”

“She sent a text. Said she was in Montreal and she’d call me tonight.”

“That’s good then, right?”

“Fingers crossed. And John?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s going to be all right.”

John nodded and after a quick look back at the empty bed, left the room.

 

She sat by the bed, writing up her notes and flipping through the old copies of OK! she’d found in the waiting room. After an hour, her notes were in pristine shape and she’d developed a small fangirl crush on Harry Styles from One Direction. He reminded her of Sophie McKinnon, the girl (sorry, Harry) she’d been in love with all through middle school. They’d practiced kissing in Sophie’s bedroom after school for months _(for when we have boyfriends, Kate told her)_ until her mother caught them and banned Kate from the house.

Still no sign of Sherlock.

After another half hour, she went looking for a nurse. It was like trying to hail a cab in rush hour.

“Will Mr. Holmes be much longer? It’s been almost two hours.”

The nurse, clearly not happy to be intercepted, removed her latex gloves and dropped them in the waste container by the door. “Not my patient. You’ll have to ask at the desk.”

“Thanks.” _For nothing._

At the nurse’s station, after waiting ten minutes for the nurse to acknowledge she was standing there, Kate was told Sherlock had been brought to his new room downstairs directly following the scan. “Didn’t anyone tell you?” she asked, barely lifting her eyes from the screen.

“Nope,” Kate answered, unsuccessfully hiding her annoyance. “What room is he in now?”

She finally looked up at Kate. “And you are?”

She knew how this worked. Never say friend or colleague or girlfriend. You might as well say “I met him this morning.”  Always say family. “His sister.” The nurse looked sceptical. “From Canada,” she added.

“Right.” She sighed and typed something into the computer. “He’s in 312. Do you mind bringing his belongings down to him?”

 _Because I work here?_   “Sure, no problem. But can I ask you something?” 

Kate decided to take her silence as a yes.

“Do you know where or what Voxcross is? I googled it but nothing came up.”

“Voxcross? No idea, really.” She turned back to the computer.

“Thanks.”

“Vauxhall Cross, I reckon.” said someone behind her. The voice was young, the accent Cockney.

The girl was probably not more than sixteen. She looked like a street kid, thin and pale, dressed entirely in army surplus couture. But when she smiled at Kate, she showed off a set of perfectly straight teeth that Kate guessed must have set her parents back a few thousand dollars. The nose piercing – a small diamond stud – looked expensive.

“Ever watch any James Bond movies?” the girl asked.

The question seemed entirely random, and it surprised an honest answer from her. “A few. I like the new ones.”

“Vauxhall Cross is where he works – when he’s in London, I mean.” Her accent slipped. Rich girl playing street kid. “007 headquarters.” She paused and looked at Kate. “I like your accent.”

She laughed. “I like to think you have the accent, not me. It’s Canadian.”

“Yeah, he said.” She bit her lip. “Fuck.”

“Who said? What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer, just shrugged and walked away.

Kate was tempted to follow her, to shake loose whatever else she knew. But just then Sherlock’s phone vibrated. She looked down at the text – _u ok? –_ from a number she hadn’t seen before and wasn’t on his contacts list.

 _Super_ , she typed.

The phone vibrated again. _Who r u?_

She slipped the phone back into her bag.  


Back in Sherlock’s room, she pulled the case off one of the pillows and gathered up everything she could find – t-shirt, sweater, socks and slippers and stuffed them into the pillow case. When she picked up his sweat pants, a tiny piece of paper floated out of the pocket and onto the floor. She picked it up, carefully unfolded it and read the words – _Now is the time to try something new_. Sherlock didn’t seem the sentimental type – so why was he saving fortunes? She refolded it and tucked into her wallet between her driver’s licence and ATM card. She added the pants to the pillow case, slung it over one shoulder, and walked down the hall to the elevator.

She gently pushed open the door to Sherlock’s new room.

“John?”

She stepped into the room and stood at the end of the bed. Sherlock was awake and sitting up.

“Well, you look like crap,” she said. “Which is officially a grade higher than yesterday's death warmed over, so that’s positive.” The oxygen mask was gone – replaced by a nasal cannula, but the IV and monitors were still in place. “I hear the meds are working.”

“Where’s John?” he repeated.

“I sent him home to get some sleep – he was exhausted. He’ll be back in a few hours.”

“John never did have any stamina. He always insisted we stop and eat at the most inopportune times.”

She shook her head. “Give the man a break. He’s had a rough few days.”

“Brought on by your visit, Inspector Bryant.”

“You’re on blood thinners, aren’t you? Lots and lots of them, right?”

He looked confused by her sudden change in direction. “That is the standard treatment for a blood clot, yes.”

“Then don’t piss me off. All I need to do is poke you with a safety pin and you’ll bleed like a stuck pig.”

He gave her a small half-smile. “Noted.”

She dragged a chair beside his bed and sat down. “We need to talk, Sherlock. Just you and me.”

“I need to rest,” he protested, but she could tell he was curious. He would always be curious.

“Rest when I leave.”

“Very well. Talk.”

She knew her time was limited. John wouldn’t be able to stay away much longer. “I borrowed your phone. I thought mine might be hacked, remember?”

“Yes.” He eyes narrowed and she could see he was trying to work out where she was going.

“I had a lot of time to kill and I fell down the rabbit hole . . .” She hesitated, wondering how to tell him. Finally, she decided to just say it. “I read Mary’s texts. All of them.”

He closed his eyes and there was something in his expression that made her feel like she’d just kicked a puppy. She reached out and rested one hand on his arm. She expected him to pull away, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry . . .”

He looked at her. “Did you tell him?” he said.

“No. It’s not my place,” she said.

“Nor mine.”

“But then he’d have a reason to leave Mary for good. He wouldn’t stay with her if he –”

A shadow crossed his face. “I always hoped I was reason enough. I miscalculated. ” He cleared his throat and continued. “No matter how much he protests otherwise, he is still tied to Mary. I have little experience in this area, but I’m not naïve enough to believe that he never loved her, that part of him still doesn’t love her. And John has a strong sense of duty, of responsibility. To Mary and the child.”

“But if it’s not his – ”

“Finding out about Mary’s connection to Moriarty pushed him to make a decision. But he is still torn, whether he admits it or not. I recognize that I could pull him in my direction if I told him, but I’ll not have him by default.”

“But not telling him is cheating. If he finds out you knew –”

“If I hadn’t returned, he’d still be with her. Happily, I believe. Looking forward to the birth of their child. How many times can I . . . and still expect –” He stopped and took a long breath. “Have you ever lost anyone, Kate?” His voice was thick.

She nodded. “Of course. Everyone has . . .”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Not everyone remains so vigilant.”

“You should talk.”

Sherlock shifted a bit in the bed. “Sister?”

“Weren’t we just talking about you and John?”

“No, not a sister . . . but someone close. Not your mother. Mothers don’t usually cause this kind of devotion to their death. Mothers are supposed to die-“

“Jesus. If I tell you, will you shut up?”

“You’ll tell me. You’ve wanted to tell me for days.” Sherlock lifted an arm, winced, and placed it on his chest. “I think it’s the real reason you came to see me.”

“Fucking hell . . .” Kate squirmed in her chair. It had to be telepathy. She hadn’t said a word. “Contrary to your giant ego, I came to see you about Moriarty.”

“And . . .”

Kate just sat, arms folded.

“Oh, come on, Kate. I need a distraction.”

“Can we please just get back to John and why you haven’t told him about the – ”

“Girlfriend.” Sherlock slumped back into the pillow. “Of course. This morphine makes me dull.” He looked hard at Kate. “Murder?”

“Are you having fun?”

“Trying to. Unsolved I take it?”

Kate stood. “I will not sit here and let you turn her death into a game.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and blew out a breath. “Sorry.”

Kate shook her head and sat back down. She’d only known him a few days, but she could distinguish sincerity from all the other bullshit that usually came out of his mouth. She pulled the chair closer to the bed. “I was just going to leave you the file. Didn’t think you’d be well enough by the time I left.”

“Where’s the file?”

“On your kitchen table. And if you start rubbing your hands together in glee or some other kind of bullshit, you will never see it.”

“Why in the world would I . . .”

“Oh, please, if you had a moustache you’d be twirling it.”

Sherlock’s mouth curved into a smile. And then he frowned. “I _am_ sorry for your loss, Kate.”

Kate decided she liked the bullshit better. “Yeah, thanks. I’m getting over it.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Kate sighed. She scrubbed her face. Recited the facts. Looked at her shoes, her hands, watched the monitors. She knew every syllable by heart. As she went through the forensics she wondered if Sherlock would find it all so mundane. Hate crime. Brutal. Unfortunate. Unsolved.

“I’ll take the case.”

Kate looked up to see Sherlock staring at her.

“And I am very sorry.” Sherlock winced and rubbed at his chest. “As soon as I am released . . .”

“No worries. It’s been five years. I can wait a bit longer.”

“Time heals nothing, Kate.”

Kate realized he was not talking about Sarah. “Yeah, but you came back,” she said.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I did. Sometimes I wonder . . .”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I just think . . .”

“Yes, you think. That’s all you do. What is that thing you said to me? _You see but you do not observe_?”

“I observe. The particulars are just beyond my control.”

“You need to tell him, Sherlock.”

“I need to do no such thing.”

“How can he _really_ choose if he doesn’t have all the facts?”

Sherlock sighed. “What would you do?”

“Me? I’ve been watching you two – it’s so obvious . . .”

“No, I mean _you_. What would you do if Sarah came back?”

Kate squeezed her eyes shut. “She’s not coming back.”

“Yes, but if she did – what would you do?”

Kate felt pressure in her chest. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to let any shard of light into the darkness that surrounded Sarah’s death. She was gone. It was over. She rubbed her hands on her knees. She couldn’t breathe. She thought about Sarah, walking through the door, backpack slung over a shoulder, her glasses shoved up on her head. The pain was sharp. But then she saw Chloe, sitting at the kitchen table, her legs tucked under her, reading a police report. Fuck. If this is what John was going through . . . she looked up at Sherlock, tears threatening.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I love Chloe. But I loved Sarah too.” She wiped a hand across her eyes. “Fucking hell, Sherlock.”

“Exactly. So what choice do I have?”

“What will you do?”

“What I vowed to do – keep John and Mary safe. For John. Because I have done enough. He’s endured enough.”

“What about you?”

“I am irrelevant in the equation. My job is simple. I will simply focus all my efforts into ensuring that Mary doesn’t feel threatened.”

“How?”

“By taking back whatever information Magnussen has collected.”

“And how do you plan on doing that? He’s not going to give it to you because you say please.”

“I’ll give Magnussen something he wants more.”

She wasn’t going to ask what that something was. She didn’t want to know.

 

  



	9. Everybody knows that it's me or you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What did Magnussen do to you?” Kate asked._
> 
> _He looked at her, his expression open and vulnerable, and she caught a glimpse of the boy he must have been – his head stuffed full of facts and figures about how the world was made, but not a clue about how it worked. She thought for a moment that he was going to tell her, but then she watched him shut down, retreat back into his head._
> 
> _“You should leave,” he said. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter makes reference (however obliquely) to missing hospital scene between Sherlock and Magnussen.
> 
> I know this has been a long time coming...I can only blame Christmas and holidays and real life for interfering.
> 
> Thanks again to peg22, my very own cheering section and Greek chorus and everything else I could have ever wished for.

Kate shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “Magnussen can’t be the only one who knows about Mary. Do you plan to do battle with them all?”

Sherlock picked at a loose thread in the blanket.

“And you’re sure Mary’s the only reason?”

He drew in a breath and winced. “Yes, of course.”

“Then why do I have the feeling there’s something else going on – something personal between you and Magnussen.”

“What could be more personal than John’s safety?”

Maybe it was the morphine, but he was a terrible liar. “Good try, Shezza.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You are a dangerous woman, Inspector Bryant.”

“What did Magnussen do to you?”

He looked at her, his expression open and vulnerable, and she caught a glimpse of the boy he must have been – his head stuffed full of facts and figures about how the world was made, but not a clue about how it _worked._ She thought for a moment that he was going to tell her, but then she watched him shut down, retreat back into his head. “You should leave,” he said.

She wasn’t sure if he meant leave the hospital or leave London. Both, probably. “I will. When John gets back.”

“You won’t tell him about –”  

“I said I wouldn’t. I will tell him you’re an idiot, though.”

His mouth curved into a small, tired smile. “That appears to be the consensus.” He closed his eyes and his breathing slowed.

She sat back and watched him sleep, working out what excuse she could give her superintendent that would let her stay in London a few days longer. What excuse she could give Chloe.

She’d achieved everything she’d come to London for – she’d found enough evidence to make an arrest in Peter Goodale’s murder, solved the mystery of Anna Ashcroft’s disappearance, and even extracted a promise from Sherlock to take on Sarah’s case. Most surprising, she had a girlfriend waiting in Montreal who was not only speaking to her, but throwing around the L word. Maybe the engagement ring wouldn’t end up on Craigslist after all. All that was missing was a bright red bow to tie it all together.

So why couldn’t she shake the feeling that she needed to stay a little longer? Sherlock was brilliant, but a complete imbecile when it came to his own relationships. He would analyse and deduce and plan and in the end he’d fuck it all up because he knew nothing about human nature. Sherlock still didn’t understand that all John had ever wanted to hear was “Choose me.” Someone needed to protect him from himself. Preferably someone who wasn’t fucking at least one other person in the room.

She turned on Sherlock’s phone and found Greg’s number. _Need to talk,_ she typed. Her finger hovered over the send button. She shook her head and hit cancel before she could change her mind. Threw the phone back in her purse.

Her head hurt. She stood and stretched, and found some aspirin amid the loose coins at the bottom of her purse. She dry swallowed four pills and pocketed enough change to buy a large coffee at the cafeteria.

Halfway to the elevator, she stopped, took a coin from her back pocket, and stared at it. _Why not?_ It was as good a way as any to make a decision.

She flipped the coin in the air.

 

 

John knew he needed to sleep. But he couldn’t. Not yet. No matter how tired he was, there was something he needed to do first. He stood on the pavement outside St. Bart’s, looking for an empty cab. It was only five, but the sun had already set, the air tight and cold. She’d be home by now, making tea, listening to the news on the telly. When he first moved in with Mary, it had surprised him to find out how much he enjoyed the routine of their lives. Up at 6, to work at 7, home by 5, in bed by 10. It was everything that life with Sherlock wasn’t, and everything he needed. No matter what Sherlock believed.

Half an hour later, he stood outside his house, hands deep in his pockets, staring up at the bedroom window, searching for the words he would say, and a sharp pain filled his chest – as if someone had wrapped a wire tightly around his heart and was tugging it from a great distance.

A light came on in the room next to the bedroom. The baby’s room. He and Mary hadn`t gotten as far as buying a cot or choosing colours, but they’d talked about moving the office downstairs to the alcove off the kitchen. It would be tight, but it was wasted space anyway and the bedroom upstairs faced south and with new a carpet and curtains . . .

He knew how to leave Mary, he’d been doing it since the moment Sherlock returned. But how could he leave his child? Where did one learn to do that?

Some nights, lying alone in his room upstairs at 221B, unable to sleep despite the whiskey, he had let himself imagine a life with Sherlock and the child. A girl, he thought. Emma or Claire or perhaps Violet. After his grandmother. He saw her at three or four, blue eyes and blonde curls, sitting on Sherlock’s lap, one small hand resting against his cheek. Harry had done that when she was young, nestling into John as he read to her – first the Peter Rabbit books, then the Paddington series, and later, although she was perfectly capable of reading it herself, _The Secret Garden_. He pictured Sherlock reading to his daughter, all the books he’d been too serious to read as a child. It was stupid and sentimental and it broke his heart every time.

He looked up again and saw Mary standing by the window. Her back was turned but her hands were moving, pointing left and then right. She leaned against the window sill and a figure – a man, taller and broader than John – moved in front of her. His hands came up and for a short, stupid minute John thought the man meant to attack her, but then he put his hands on Mary`s shoulders and they turned and he watched as the man pulled her into a kiss and let one hand drop, his open palm pressed against Mary`s stomach. Casually, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

John stared, his brain stubbornly refusing to draw conclusions, to understand. He turned and left. Walked stiffly to the corner and caught the first bus that came by. He didn`t know where it was headed, anywhere was better than here. Half an hour later, he got off and hailed a cab back to 221B. The cab turned the corner onto Baker Street and he felt the familiar tug in his chest. Ever since Sherlock had first shown him the flat, he knew it was where he belonged. It was where he felt safe. It was where the nightmares had finally dulled to white noise. It was home.

In those short months between first having Sherlock and first losing him, John had tried hard not to think too much about what was happening between them. They had never talked about it, especially not when Sherlock was hiking up John's shirt and skidding his palms along his chest. He never questioned how Sherlock knew the spot on John’s neck that would make him shiver, or the way Sherlock kissed John and it felt like the sky was falling.

The first time John had kissed Sherlock, he'd almost missed his mouth entirely, just catching the corner of it, because Sherlock had been turning to look up at the lightning storm when John leaned in. It turned out not to matter, because five awkward, embarrassed minutes later Sherlock had taken John's head in both his hands and pulled him close, kissing him hard and sure, his fingers snaking through his hair, both of them falling away from the window onto Sherlock’s bed. That night John learned Sherlock’s body by the flashes of light in the sky, in the middle of a torrential spring.

He’d known then that it did him no good to analyse was happening between them, and it would have done neither of them any good if John had admitted, to Sherlock or himself, that sometimes those dazzling, perfect moments were all he lived for.

Now he unlocked the front door, took the stairs two at a time and pushed into the kitchen. He heard Mrs. Hudson downstairs, rattling something, her radio turned to the classics, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t talk about what he’d seen. Not yet. Not until he was sure. If there was thing he knew for certain about Mary, it was that she was a liar. Maybe what he’d seen was just another lie. He leaned against the table, trying to decide what to do next.

He was hungry.

He didn’t bother opening the fridge. He saw a Speedy’s take-away menu on top of a stack of blue file folders, and shut his eyes. Everything ached. His eyelids felt like sandpaper as they scraped open again and he tossed the menu on the table. He glanced at the files, didn’t recognize the handwriting, the little post-it tags hanging off in rigid single file.

He slid a finger under the first one and opened it. Standard police report. Picture paper clipped to the upper corner. Victim. Young. Pretty. He hadn’t heard Sherlock talk about taking on any new cases. Then he noticed the maple leaf stamped in one corner, the RCMP insignia in the other.

This must be one of Kate’s files, but why would she leave it here? He knew he had no business looking, but what if it was about Mary . . . what did Kate say her real name was? Anna?

He ran down to Speedy’s, picked up a plate of lasagna and three beers. He ate quickly and sat back in his chair, files on his lap. No, this was definitely not about Mary. This was about a girl called Sarah . . .

He was two beers and twenty pages in when he lost his struggle to stay awake. The papers slid noiselessly to the floor and his head dropped to his chest. When Mrs. Hudson came up to check on him two hours later, she gathered up the papers, tossed the empty take-away container and left him to sleep.

 

In the cafeteria, Kate paid for the coffee and ham sandwich and carried her tray to a corner table by the window. Away from the chatting nurses and the worried mothers. She checked Sherlock’s phone for new texts – there was only one. _Mama back in the crib._ _Rock a bye baby._

She guessed Sherlock was having Mary followed – and if the texts were any indication, by someone who enjoyed doing it. The girl she’d met earlier, the one who told her about Vauxhall Cross, was probably one of Sherlock’s too.

She took out her iPad, logged onto the hospital’s free Wi-Fi and did a Google search for Charles Magnussen. A long Wikipedia entry – no doubt written by his own PR people, was the first of over a million hits. She started there.

An hour later, the sandwich half-eaten, the coffee gone cold, she knew the basics. Where he was born (an unpronounceable town in Denmark), went to school (Cambridge), the first newspapers he bought – a small regional broadsheet based in Bristol, and less than a year later, the struggling _Hastings Observer_ , which he quickly turned into a tabloid. Within a few years, he owned more than twenty local newspapers, saving costs by using the same printing press for all of them. He entered the London market in 1995 with the purchase of the failing _Sunday Express_ which he quickly remade into a daily paper very much in the image of _The Sun –_ “chock full of tits, TV stars and royals,” one reviewer said. She found more than one blog that suggested/accused Magnussen of being the original source for the hacking scandal at Rupert Murdoch’s _News of the World._ In 2000, he bought a TV network. Two years later, he bought a national newspaper in Canada. And so it went. She imagined him like Pac-Man, eating up everything in his path.

Other articles criticized Magnussen’s closeness with the Conservative Party leader, David Cameron. In November 2011, his official spokesperson said that Magnussen and Cameron “were in regular communication” and “that there is nothing unusual in the prime minister talking to Charles Magnussen.” Others expressed concern that a foreign national had so much access to those in power in Britain. An anti-Magnussen blog started after Cameron’s election in 2011 ended six months later with a short entry reporting the suicide of the blogger, David Griffiths. When she searched for “David Griffiths” and “suicide”, she found an article on _The Richmond Times_ websiteunder the headline, “Local man charged in child pornography scandal.” It was dated two weeks before Griffiths’ suicide. The paper was one of Magnussen’s.

In his early thirties, he married and quickly divorced. He had no children and had recently built a large £30m estate outside London he called Appledore. She found no reference to his hobbies – Sherlock and blackmail if she had to guess – in any of the articles.

She bought another coffee and an alarmingly bright yellow lemon curd tart and wrote up her notes while she ate. Something didn’t make sense – Magnussen was rich and powerful and dangerous – so why was he bothering with Mary Morstan? What had Mycroft said _? My brother will always assume that he is the epicentre of any situation . . ._

She licked the gelatinous filling from her fingers and went through everything again from the beginning.

Sherlock walked in on Mary threatening to kill Magnussen in his own office – how did she get in? Where was his security team? In every picture and news story she’d found on the internet, there were always at least two large, well-tailored men standing or walking a few steps behind.

What if Mycroft were right? That Sherlock’s shooting hadn’t been a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time after all? What if Magnussen _wanted_ Sherlock to find out about Mary? If he knew how Sherlock felt about John, then he also knew what lengths Sherlock would go to in order to protect him. If Magnussen owned Mary Morstan, then he owned Sherlock too. Nice theory. But why Sherlock? Brilliant as he was, in the Holmes family it was clearly Mycroft who wielded the political power, not Sherlock. If you believed Greg, he _was_ the British government.

 _Of course_. She shook her head, wondering why it had taken her so long to see it. _What better way for Magnussen to get to Mycroft Holmes than through his younger brother?_

She logged into her Gmail account.

_Bad news, sir. Have a wicked case of food poisoning – egg sandwich gone wrong, I suspect. Been in bed for the last 48 hours (I won’t bore you with the nasty details). Doctor says I’m dehydrated and must rest.  Rescheduled flight for next Sunday – will use my banked overtime hours. Don’t worry about the budget – staying with an old friend. Will send Goodale report Monday. Case is solid enough for an arrest, I think._

_If you need a doctor’s note for the file, let me know. I met an excellent doctor here._

_Kate_

The next email was harder.

_Dear Chloe . . ._

 

//

 

“I’m going to gain twenty pounds,” Kate said between bites of Mrs. Hudson’s cranberry scones.

She sat in Sherlock’s chair, a half-eaten pasty, an empty chips box and three Diet Pepsi cans on the table beside her. Mrs. Hudson had given up offering her tea, and had a case of the soda delivered the day before.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and gathered teacups from the tables. “Less sugar than your American donuts, dear. I used to buy them by the dozen in Florida, lovely and sticky . . . gained a stone once over a long weekend.”

Kate smiled. “Canadian, Mrs. Hudson. I’m Canadian.”

“Oh yes, dear. I forget. You sound so American.”

Kate stood and brushed crumbs off her shirt. “I’d be offended if I weren’t so full.” She took her dishes to the kitchen. “How does Sherlock stay so thin, I wonder.”

Mrs. Hudson joined her at the sink. “It’ll do you no good to wonder about that one. He’s been a mystery since he showed up at my husband’s second trial – calling the prosecutor an idiot, stealing the trial notes – I thought he’d escaped from the mental hospital.”

“And now?” Kate always felt like Mrs. Hudson was on the verge of telling her something very important, some little tidbit that would explain it all – especially why Kate was still here, gossiping over tea and cakes like a proper English lady.

“And now, I need to air out his room. John said they’d be home at 3 and it’s already half 2.”

Shut down again. Kate sighed and walked back into the living room. Why was she still here? Coin toss aside, of course. She’d spent the last few days alternating shifts at the hospital with John and filling her notebook full of scribbles and theories and not much else. She’d resolved not to say anything about Magnussen or Mary or the baby to Sherlock until he was better. To pass the time, they played chess when he was up to it and hearts when he wasn’t. She brought him cookies and tea and in a weak moment, probably brought on by too much morphine and not enough John, he explained how he’d managed the fall from the roof. “It was quite easy, really,” he said with a small smile. “It was leaving him that was hard.”

Chloe had taken the news better than she’d hoped and her superintendent was surprisingly (and suspiciously) sympathetic. And now Sherlock was being released from hospital and John had gone to fetch him home. Home. That’s what John had said to the doctor when he called to say that at this stage in his recovery, Sherlock would be more comfortable somewhere else. Kate had been around long enough to understand the code for _Sherlock needs to leave this hospital because he’s being a complete dick to everyone around him._

“I’ll bring him home,” John had said into the phone. He’d turned to Kate and smiled. “He’s coming home.”

“That wonderful news, John.”

She’d wondered if John was thinking the same thing she was.

Intermission was over.

Act Two was about to begin.


	10. Everybody knows you've been discreet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“But don’t you see?” Kate asked Sherlock, her voice rising. “You think this is about John and Mary, but it isn’t. Not really. It’s not even about you. You’re all just pawns in Magnussen’s game. You must see that . . .”_
> 
> _“I need to see Mary. “ John stood with his fists clenched at his side. “Before we do anything, I need to talk to her.”_
> 
> _Sherlock and Kate answered at the same time. “No.”_
> 
> _John turned to Kate and pointed a finger. “You have nothing to say about it. Why the hell are you even still here?” ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting close to the end as I'm beginning to bump up against canon. I can lead them all to Appledore, but can I make it all make sense? 
> 
> Again, big thanks to peg22, master plotter and my favourite valentine. There is not enough chocolate in the world, just saying...
> 
> And thanks to everyone for being patient with my erratic updates.

Kate sat on the couch, legs crossed under her, sipping her third Diet Pepsi of the afternoon, rereading a case file she’d found stuck under a cushion. To say the arrival of Sherlock and John had made her presence superfluous was an understatement.

John had hustled Sherlock through the flat, waving off Mrs. Hudson and her bottomless pot of tea, and had shut the bedroom door firmly behind them. Mrs. Hudson frowned, set the teapot on the table, and left.

She hadn’t been sure what to do. She’d crept to the door of Sherlock’s bedroom, listened for a bit to the murmured tones, punctuated by Sherlock’s protests _– I am not a child, John, I can take off my own trousers, John, I don’t need to rest, John_ – but she felt a bit pervy and wandered back into the living room.

She was starting to think of the couch as her spot – she’d spent enough hours sitting there over the last few days. She found the file after John had left to fetch Sherlock from the hospital and had been very interested to read how he’d figured out that the suspect had borrowed his sister’s shoes to avoid detection. She would have to remember that one.

She heard the bedroom door open and slammed the file shut. John walked into the kitchen, turned on the tap and filled the kettle. She walked to the doorway. “Everything okay?”

“He’s asleep.” John rubbed his neck. “Finally.” He sounded like the tired father of a small child.

“Doesn’t like naps I take it.”

“Doesn’t like being told what to do.” He set the kettle onto the stove.

“He listens to you more than most.”

John smiled wearily. “Not sure that’s true.” John retrieved the teapot from the table and emptied the contents into the sink. “I know better than to ask you if you want tea.”

She held up the can. “I’m good.” Kate walked back into the living room. She felt even more out of place than ever. John puttered in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil, and she stood halfway between Sherlock’s chair and the door. Her suitcase was shoved behind the couch, her purse stuck under the coffee table, her Diet Pepsi cans standing in a perfect row.

John came out of the kitchen with his cup and sat in his chair. Pulled out his phone. Shook his head and held the phone up to Kate. “Mycroft. He’s called at least a dozen times. I’m surprised he’s not calling you too.”

Kate reached in her pocket and retrieved the phone. “I’m still using Sherlock’s.”

“Ahhh. Lucky you.” John put the phone on the table and warmed both hands around his teacup.

Kate sat facing him in Sherlock’s chair. John sipped his tea and looked past her out the window. She turned on the phone, scrolled through the texts, and tried to come up with something to say. Something safe that wouldn’t piss him off or let some secret slip. She’d never cheated on any of her girlfriends, but she imagined this must be what it was like. She had so much to keep straight – John didn’t know about the baby, but he did know Sherlock had cloned Mary’s phone and was having her followed. She couldn’t remember if she’d told either of them that Mycroft admitted that Mary worked for him too. She knew for sure that John had no idea just how much Sherlock loved him.

John cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about before . . . when we got here . . .”

Kate sighed with relief. “No worries.”

“It’s just that I knew Sherlock was dead on his feet and he’d end up back in hospital if I didn’t get him to lie down.”

“I’m sure the taxi ride was tiring . . .”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Mycroft sent a car.”

“Nice.” Kate knew all about Mycroft and his cars.

“Sherlock didn’t think so.” John sighed. “For once, I didn’t care. I’m just glad he’s home.”

Kate nodded. “Look, I meant to tell you before, but I didn’t get the chance. I’m going to move back to the hotel tonight.”

“No, it’s fine. You should stay. You can have the room upstairs. I’ll stay with Sherlock.” His face coloured. “To keep an eye on him.”

She laughed. “I thought we were past all that, John.”

“Yes, well. Quite right.”

“I’m hungry. How about I go pick up some groceries and cook dinner for us tonight? Then I promise to disappear for a few hours.”

“Yeah, okay.”

She stood and grabbed her coat. “Any requests? Don’t suppose you have Kraft Dinner over here? We can fancy it up – add some hot dogs or tuna.”

“Not sure. It all sounds rather . . . packaged.” He looked nervous.

“Don’t worry, I’m kidding.” _Sort of_. “I’ll find something decent. As long as I end the meal with cookies, he’s good.”

She wrapped her scarf around her neck and buttoned her coat. She had one hand on the door knob when she stopped and turned back. “John? You can stop worrying now. He’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I know. It’s just . . .”

“God, I know I’m about to sound like Mrs. Hudson, so tell me to shut up if you like. But one thing at a time. He’s home. Worry about Mary and the rest of it tomorrow.”

He walked to the door, reached in his pocket and gave her a £20 note. “Buy some champagne. The good stuff.” He laughed. “As good as £20 will get.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

//

Dinner was a disaster.

At least the food was good. Tikka masala from Taj Mahal. It had taken Kate all of five minutes to realize she could cook three things and two of them started with the word Kraft. If the line outside the Taj Mahal was any indication, she wouldn’t poison Sherlock on his first night home, so take-out it was.

Sherlock was back in his chair when she got home. She set the bags on the kitchen table and grabbed a Diet Pepsi from the fridge. She heard the shower through the closed door of the bathroom and sat down in John’s chair.

“How are you feeling?”

Sherlock sat with his fingers laced, staring at the fireplace. “Fine.”

“John in the shower?” She had suddenly lost the ability for small talk.

“Obviously.” Sherlock looked at her. “Did your supervisor get the information about the wire transfers?”

No need for small talk, apparently. “Yes, thank you. He’s sending it up the chain. Should have an answer back from him in a couple of days.”

“Good.” Sherlock went back to staring at the fireplace.

Kate felt like she was on a bad first date. “Uh, are you hungry? I brought-“

“Tikka masala and samosas from Taj Mahal. John doesn’t like samosas.”

“He doesn’t have to eat them.” Kate felt the irritation crawling up her neck. “What’s up with you?”

Sherlock sighed and leaned forward. “I’m trying to think. Why don’t you tell me everything you need to say now, and I can get back to it.”

“Oh I can think of plenty to say to you right now.” Kate stood and walked to the couch. “I hope you haven’t been an ass to John, too, today. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Then he should act less like my nurse and more like my – ” His voice trailed off.

She threw him a dirty look, grabbed the file she’d been reading earlier and took it back to John’s chair.

“What is that?” Sherlock reached for the file.

“An old case file I found. Interesting.”

Sherlock looked at the name on the folder. “Tedious.”

“Tedious?”

“A five at the most. Lestrade knew better than to give it to me. I solved it over the phone.”

“And I paid for it for months.” A voice from the door startled them both. Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway, holding a brown bag. “Thought I’d bring dinner.” He walked into the sitting room.

“Put it on the table with the other one.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair.

Kate stood up and took the bag from Greg. “Detective Inspector.”

Greg smiled. “Please, after all we’ve been through?” He squeezed Kate’s shoulder. “How are you doing, Kate?”

“I’m good.” Kate nodded toward Sherlock. “He’s a bit cranky.”

Greg picked up the bottle on the table. “Champagne? What are we celebrating?”

“Sherlock’s homecoming.” Kate walked back into the sitting room. “Though I think he’d be happier if we left him alone.”

Greg grabbed a beer from the fridge, and sat on the chair at the desk. “So he’s back to himself then?”

“I am right here.” Sherlock crossed his legs, winced, and uncrossed them.

“You okay?” Kate frowned. “Need something?”

“An hour of silence and a good shot of morphine.”

“No morphine. Not until later.” John walked out of the bathroom, hair still wet. “Doctor said you need to wean yourself off.” He came into the room, greeted Greg and sat in his chair.

Kate went into the kitchen, took plates from the cupboard and opened a bag. “I brought Indian. Hope that’s alright.”

“You hungry, Greg?” John asked.

“Yeah, looks like Kate beat me to the take-away. Taj Mahal?” Greg smiled. “The naan was right out of the oven.”

John looked at Sherlock. “You feel like eating?”

He shook his head. “Does it matter? I had pasta earlier. At the cafeteria.” Sherlock looked at John. “How was your shower?”

John smiled. “Lonely.”

Sherlock sputtered something and sat back in the chair. Both Greg and Kate busied themselves with the cartons of food.

Kate was secretly ecstatic. John had just made a public innuendo to Sherlock, right in front of them. Things must be looking up.

They ate in silence for a bit. Kate watched John count every bite that went into Sherlock’s mouth. Greg’s phone rang twice, but he turned it off both times. She got up and was looking for champagne glasses when she heard John slam down his hand on the table.

“I don’t care, Sherlock. You’re just home from hospital. Give it a fucking rest for once.”

Kate came back into the sitting room. Greg had moved to the couch, and John stood above Sherlock, who was looking up at him.

“There is no time to rest, John. The plan is everything.”

“There won’t be a plan if you end up back in hospital.”

“What’s going on?” Kate stood behind John’s chair. “I was just opening the champagne . . .”

“I was explaining to John that it is imperative we retrieve whatever information Magnussen has about Mary. That is the only way John will be ever be safe.”

Kate walked around and stood between them. “Tonight? We need to talk about this tonight?”

Sherlock sighed. “We’ve wasted so much time already.”

“But don’t you see?” Kate asked, her voice rising. “You think this is about John and Mary, but it isn’t. Not really. It’s not even about you. You’re all just pawns in Magnussen’s game. You must see that . . .”

“I need to see Mary. “ John stood with his fists clenched at his side. “Before we do anything, I need to talk to her.”

Sherlock and Kate answered at the same time. “No.”

John turned to Kate and pointed a finger. “You have nothing to say about it. Why the hell are you even still here?”

Sherlock reached for John’s arm. “John, she is invested . . .”

John pushed away from the table and stood up. “Mary is my wife. My pregnant wife.”

Kate looked at Sherlock, who sat back heavily in the chair and closed his eyes. She wanted to punch John. Didn’t he understand what he did to Sherlock every time he said that?

“John, even I agree with Sherlock. You have no idea how deep any of this goes.” Greg stood beside John. “Mycroft’s all up in it, so you know it’s serious.”

John grew very still. He lowered his head. Kate thought for a minute he was crying. But then he raised his head and the look on his face made her step back a bit.

“I understand the seriousness of this situation. I understand it better than all of you. It’s my life. It’s my problem.”

Sherlock started to speak, but John held up a hand.

“I know you’re trying to deduce your way to a solution, Sherlock, but you’re just out of hospital and you have a rather compromised perspective about this.” His expression softened. “You have too much skin in the game to be objective. You know I’m right.”

“I know no such thing.” Sherlock gripped the chair and pulled himself up. “It’s precisely because I do have skin in this game that I must stop Magnussen from ruining Mary. From hurting you.”

John stared at Sherlock for a minute. Kate didn’t know whether to say something or grab Greg and head to the nearest pub. She glanced back to see Greg typing madly on his phone. At least if it all went sideways, she knew Mycroft ex machina would be at the ready.

He turned and headed to the door. He grabbed his coat and scarf from the hook. “I need some air.”

Kate waited until she heard the bottom door slam, then went back to the kitchen table and lifted a small container from the take-out bag. “Cookies, anyone?”

 

//

 

John turned the corner and felt the familiar pain grip his chest. This was the place he’d hoped to find his happily ever after Sherlock. He’d been so angry with him for being dead and later, so angry with him for not staying dead. Sherlock’s return had made John’s life with Mary seem small and foolish.

The black sedan idling at the kerb ten feet ahead should have surprised him, but didn’t. He stopped, hands on his hips. Kate was right – his life _was_ a soap opera. The back door opened and an umbrella appeared, followed by Mycroft’s shiny shoes.

John waited while he walked toward him. Crossed his arms. He wasn’t in the mood.

Mycroft stopped a few feet from him. “John.”

“Must be important. Anthea usually does your dirty work.”

Mycroft smiled. “Anthea is in Tahiti. Don’t make a scene, John. Get in the car.”

“Bugger off.” He turned and walked down the block toward the house. His mistake was looking back. Mycroft stood, umbrella hooked on his arm, staring at him, infuriating smile still plastered on his face. Mycroft shrugged and turned and walked back toward the car and John wanted to laugh because it felt so good to finally –

He felt an arm tighten around his neck and the point of something hard press into his back. He was carried back to the car a few inches off the ground, gasping and choking.

The grip around his neck loosened and the car door held open for him. John looked back (and up) and his pride was relieved to see that Anthea’s replacement was clearly military – tall, wide and well-trained. John straightened his jacket and stepped into the car. The door closed and Mycroft smiled at him.

“Thank you for meeting with me, John.”

“Fuck off.”

“Yes, well. I thought it was time you and I had a private chat.”

John frowned. “A chat? Really? You followed me all the way here to chat?”

“I needed to ascertain if your repeated threats to confront your wife were simply that – threats.”

“I am not going to confront my wife . . .”

“Prudent, since she’s an assassin. An extremely successful assassin, I might add.”

“You may not. It’s none of your business what I do.”

“Sherlock is my business.”

“What about him?”

Mycroft crossed his legs, looked out the window. “How is he?”

That wasn’t the question he expected. He almost sounded concerned. John didn’t answer. He had to be careful. Mycroft was nothing if not a master manipulator. John knew why Mycroft didn’t want him talking to Mary – at least not without an approved script in hand. And he knew why Sherlock didn’t want him here. Even Kate fucking Canada had an opinion about it. She may not have the jersey to prove it, but she was definitely playing for Team Sherlock.

Only John wasn’t lying. He really hadn’t come here to confront Mary. He just wanted to see her, talk to her, and convince himself that he hadn’t imagined her. He needed to remind himself that whatever else she had turned out to be, she was also Mary – the woman who blushed when he called her beautiful, cried when she watched _Notting Hill_ , laughed when they found out about the pregnancy. She drank him under the table, and fucked him on top of it. And Mycroft bloody Holmes had nothing to say about any of it. This was between him and Mary.

“I looked at his charts. His improvement was . . . a relief,” Mycroft said.

John looked over at him. “Tell him that.”

“I thought it best to monitor his situation from a distance . . .”

“Although I’d love to sit here all night and discuss your fucked up relationship with your brother, I have to go.” John tried the door. “Unlock the door.”

Mycroft’s face lost all traces of a smile. “Not advisable John.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to have to do this, you know.”

“Do what? Kidnap me?”

“I had hoped that when you discovered the true nature of your wife’s . . . nature, you would understand the delicate position you are in. As well as the danger you continue to put Sherlock in.”

“What are you on about?”

“My brother’s obsession with Charles Magnussen has turned a difficult situation into an untenable one. Not to mention the latest addition to your happy little household.”

“Kate? What does she have to do with this?”

“What indeed . . . I fear she has stirred up quite the hornet’s nest. She has far more in common with Sherlock that you might imagine.”

“Do you ever get to the point? You and Sherlock think that if I tell Mary I know that she was working for Moriarty and killed that MP in Canada, it’ll get me a bullet to the head –“

“Or chest.”

John stopped. “She’d never hurt me. She’s not a monster.” He hoped he sounded surer than he felt.

“And you are convinced of this because . . .”

“Because for one thing, she’s carrying my baby. She’s not going to kill the father of her baby, no matter what files you have on her, no matter what you think she’s done in the past . . .”

Mycroft turned to face John. “This is getting us nowhere. You will not contact Mary. Not today, not tomorrow. You will continue to correspond exclusively through emails and the postal service. Until such time that I feel it is necessary, she is simply someone you used to know.

“Fuck you Mycroft. She’s still my wife. Sherlock and I-“

Mycroft reached over and grabbed John by the collar. It shocked him so much he forgot everything he was going to say.

“You are an idiot. An idiot who is going to get my brother killed. Again. And you continue to wound him with this nonsense about your poor, misunderstood wife. I won’t stand for it.” Mycroft was breathing hard. “Your wife, John, is right now in Essex eating rosemary potatoes and filet of sole with the man she’s been sleeping with for months. She started seeing him two weeks after Sherlock’s return. Two weeks after she realised it was very unwise to put all her eggs into your very flimsy basket. James Moriarty taught your wife well. She will always have an exit strategy.” Mycroft released John’s collar and he fell back against the seat.

“What are you talking about?” John’s voice was barely above a whisper. He didn’t want Mycroft to say another word. He knew it was the truth, a truth he had been studiously avoiding since he’d seen them at the window, his window.

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t expect to reveal so much.” He looked at John. “I have a soft spot for my brother, infuriating as he may be, and I fear these last weeks have made me sentimental. My only objective is and has been to keep him safe. A daunting task at the best of times. But surely John, you do see what you’re doing to him?”

“What _I’m_ doing to him?”

“You move back to Baker Street and resume what I can only surmise is a longstanding relationship, and now here you are, running back to your wife.”

“I just want to talk to her. Why does no one believe that?”

“If you tell her you know about her connection to Moriarty – what do you think happens then?”

“I don’t know, maybe she could explain . . .”

“What explanation could she give, John? She is exactly what Moriarty made her.”

John took a deep breath. Fucking Mycroft was right. Sherlock was right. Kate was even right. He had to stop thinking of Mary as Mary Watson. The woman he loved. _Had_ _loved_ he realized with a start. And if he were honest with himself, it had all gone wonky the minute Sherlock returned. The wedding had been nice, the honeymoon nicer. How many chances did one get to upstage Sherlock Holmes? But the picket fence future he had clung to those first nights with Mary, when she had rescued him from the endless nights without Sherlock, had all seemed moot the moment Sherlock appeared in front of him, champagne bottle in hand, saying all the wrong things, in all the right ways.

Fucking hell, he’d been a daft prick.

“Two weeks after . . . so like November last year?”

Mycroft looked at him. “I don’t have the exact date. I can access the file if you . . .”

“No . . . does Sherlock know?”

Mycroft frowned. “No. He doesn’t have the clearance.”

John sat for a moment, trying to make his heart slow down. Trying to take all the ridiculous pieces of information swirling around his head and put them in some kind of rational order that he could understand. That he could accept. He wished he had Sherlock’s mind palace. Because it was all too much. He could feel himself shutting down. But then a lone thought flashed across his brain in neon colors. And it changed everything.

“It’s not my baby, is it?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, took a long look at John’s face, and tapped on the window. The car pulled away from the kerb.   



	11. Everybody knows that it's now or never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns from his "talk" with Mycroft. John and Sherlock have a conversation. Kate tries to stay out of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to peg22 for filling in all my empty spaces, both on the page and in real life. Though she is beginning to wonder how much longer I can avoid the mess that was the last half hour of HLV.

Greg left not long after John. She walked him to the door and they stood on the landing for a few minutes, talking.

“Did you text Mycroft?” She was no fan of Sherlock’s brother, but maybe he was exactly what John needed. Assuming a smack upside the head was out of the question.

“Yeah, told him I would. Though I’m not convinced that John having it out with Mary is such a bad idea. I can’t see that she’d do him any harm, not with all of us looking on.”

“Maybe.” 

She reached across and brushed a stray piece of jasmine rice from his tie. She wanted to ask him if his daughter’s bike was still in the trunk of his car, was Sherlock pulling her leg when he claimed he’d never seen a single _Star Wars_ movie, did Mycroft make him happy.

It was Greg who broke the silence. “When you are going back to Canada? Chloe must be missing you.”

“Sunday afternoon. I miss her too. You’d think I’d be more anxious to get home, but I feel like I’m walking away at half-time. I want to know how it all turns out. Sherlock is convinced Magnussen is the anti-Christ and he’s the only one who can set it right.”

“If what Mycroft tells me is true, then Sherlock’s not far wrong about him.”

“You know he’s set on getting into Appledore’s vaults and taking back whatever evidence Magnussen has against Mary?  Lady Smallwood too.” Greg look surprised and she added, “I spent a lot time this week sitting in Sherlock’s hospital room. Morphine makes him rather chatty. I think he enjoys the meds more than he lets on.”

“Yeah, well that’s a story for another day.” He buttoned his overcoat. “I should get going. Early court date.  Call me if you need anything.”

 

 

When she came back into the flat, Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, hands steepled under his chin. He was capital T thinking and she knew him well enough by now to leave him alone. She cleared away the plates and take-out containers and found a place in the fridge for the unopened bottle of champagne. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove. No doubt someone would want a cup of tea before too long.

She retrieved Sherlock’s phone from the charger and sat at the kitchen table to check her messages one last time – he’d started making noises about getting his phone back and she was running out of excuses why he shouldn’t have it. She’d buy a new SIM card for her own phone at the Virgin store in the morning and surrender his. She was also trying to decide whether to tell him she’d taken on a case while he was in hospital. She was bored and it was so simple it seemed a shame not to accept it. All it took were a few phone calls, half an hour on the internet, and a search of the client’s boyfriend’s car and the next day £200 was transferred into Sherlock’s account. She liked to think of it as earning her keep. She wasn’t sure Sherlock would see it that way.

“Boiling,” Sherlock said.

She looked up. “Are you telling me because you want tea or because the noise is bothering you?”

“Both.”

She stood and he held out one hand. “Phone.”

She sighed and handed it over. “And don’t read my email.”

“Why on earth would I?”

“I think I liked you better when I thought you might die.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He glanced over at the kettle.

“I know. I know. More fucking tea for his fucking highness.”

He began scrolling through the phone. If he was surprised by anything he read, he didn’t let on. It was only after she brought him the tea that he looked up.

“How long?” he said.

“An hour,” and then more softly, “He’ll be back soon. Knowing your brother, he’s driving John all over London, lecturing him on the foolhardiness of chasing after Mary. I bet he actually uses the word foolhardy.”

He blinked. “My brother?”

“I thought you knew. Greg texted Mycroft when John stormed out.”

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. “This has nothing to do with him.”

“It has everything to do with him. He has a lot to lose if it gets out that the British government is in the habit of hiring assassins.”

“Mycroft can take care of himself.” He went back to his phone. She wondered how long it would take him to find the download of _Pride and Prejudice_ (the Colin Firth version, of course) that she paid for with his credit card.

She sat opposite him in John’s chair. She knew he wanted her to go away, but she didn’t have much time before John came back.

“Sherlock?”

“Why are you still speaking?”

“Just listen. Is there any way Mycroft could know the baby isn’t John’s? Would he tell him if he knew?”

Sherlock studied her for a long moment and blew out an irritated breath. “If he thought it would help him. Your questions are tiresome.”

“Well, you won’t have to put up with me much longer. I’m leaving Sunday.”

Sherlock continued to stare at her. He wasted so much time on . . . thinking. If she thought that someone was about to tell Chloe something that would potentially hurt her, not to mention wreck every chance she might have at a reconciliation . . . she wouldn’t be sitting here thinking about it –

“Did you know Sarah had a US savings account?”

It was Kate’s turn to stare. “What?”

“The day before she died, five thousand dollars was wired into the account. As it was on the fifteenth of every month.” Sherlock sat back, still watching Kate.

“No way.”

“I can show you the documentation.”

“How did you . . .”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Wait.” Kate sat up. Tried to breathe. Why in the hell would Sarah have a bank account that she didn’t know about? Who was paying her five thousand dollars a month . . .

“When did it start?”

“There were three previous transfers. They stopped after her death. It seems reasonable to pursue a connection between these payments and her attack.” He stopped talking and looked at her. “Kate?”

Kate couldn’t breathe. She hung her head between her knees. Didn’t help. Things were getting fuzzy around the edges. Sarah had a secret savings account . . .

She felt Sherlock’s hand on her shoulder. She grabbed her knees and took a deep breath.

“Not so fast. You will hyperventilate.” Sherlock patted her shoulder twice. “Just lean back. Your airway is obstructed.” He gently shoved her shoulders back against the chair. “There, now slowly breathe in and out, in a consistent and measured rhythm.”

Kate almost laughed. It was like being cared for by a textbook. But she did what Sherlock said and she began to feel her heart slow. Her breathing calmed. She opened her eyes. Sherlock was studying her with what looked like actual concern.

“M’okay.”

Sherlock nodded and fell back heavily into his chair. “I didn’t mean to ambush you.”

Kate swallowed and ran a hand across her forehead. “Yeah, I know.”

“So I take it you were not aware.”

“Wow, you _are_ a detective.”

Sherlock ignored her. “Did she know anyone in America? Friends? Family?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Everyone in Canada knows someone in the States. Basic geography.”

“Balance of probability then.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. Sarah was an artist – she never had a steady job in her life. It was one of the few things we fought about – she always felt guilty that I was supporting her. She never believed I was happy to do it. So where did the money come from?”

“Untraceable so far. Of course I’ve been a bit . . . distracted . . .”

“I’m surprised you found anything. The police never did. Not that they looked very hard.”

“I have . . . associates.”

“So I’ve heard. Speaking of associates . . .”

Sherlock held up a hand. “That case was a three at the most. Even John would have solved it.” He smiled. “Eventually.”

“I was bored. And it was a four.”

“I will use our fee to continue to track Sarah’s payments.”

Kate looked at him. “I know what you’re doing,” she said.

“What am I doing?”

“You chose now to tell me about Sarah because you didn’t want to talk about John. Or the baby.” Kate stood and walked around the chair. “You outmaneuvered me, didn’t you?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

“Distract, distress, discombobulate . . .” Sherlock opened his mouth but Kate held up her hand. “No. No. Not until we talk about John. About what you’re going to do about John.”

“I’d like to know the answer to that question.” The voice startled them both. John stood in the doorway, half in, half out.

“We were just wondering where you were.” Kate tried to look nonchalant.

John dropped a thick file on the table, unwound his scarf and hung his coat on the hook by the door.

He walked past Sherlock and Kate into the kitchen, took down a bottle of Jameson from the cupboard and splashed some into the bottom of a glass. He leaned back against the sink, emptied it in one swallow and quickly poured another.

He carried the glass and the bottle back to his chair and sank into it. Sherlock glanced at the bottle, but said nothing.

Kate had retreated to the couch. She knew if she said anything, one of them would kick her out and she was just as keen as Sherlock to find out what Mycroft had said to John.

No one spoke. John concentrated on his drink. Sherlock concentrated on watching John drink. Kate concentrated on not banging their heads together.

“What’s in the file?” Sherlock finally asked.

John looked at the file. “It’s from Mycroft.”

“Consorting with my brother now?”

John held up the glass, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that.”

“What’s in the file?”

John refilled his glass and set the bottle on the floor. “To do with a case, he said. Not Mary, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Bullshit. You’re always thinking. Trying to work out the right angle, the right story, the right _lie_ – _don’t let John know I’m not really dead, don’t tell him I’m having his wife followed, don’t tell him_ – ”

Sherlock leaned forward. “I explained –”

_“Don’t tell John the baby’s not his_.”

There was a long silence. John and Sherlock stared at each other and Kate held her breath – she had no clue where this was going.

It was Sherlock who blinked first. “Did Mycroft tell you that?”

John scrubbed a hand across his face. “You’ve been following her for months. Of course you knew.”

Sherlock nodded. “I suspected as much, yes.”

Kate gave Sherlock points for not lying.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“It wasn’t my place.”

“Then whose fucking place was it?” John swallowed the rest of his drink and looked at Sherlock. “Would you have ever told me?”

Sherlock pressed his hand against his chest. Kate knew it meant he was uncomfortable. She wondered if it was the injury or the subject. “I don’t know,” he said. “John, I . . .”

“So you would let me go on thinking it was my child. For how long?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How long?” John repeated.

“How long did I suspect?”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot. How long would you have kept this from me?” he shouted, his hand curling into a fist. For a moment, Kate thought John was getting ready to hit him. But then he paused and took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, calmer. “You let me think you were dead for two fucking years. How long were you going to lie to me this time? Until the baby was born? Started school? Would you have let me spend my whole life believing a lie because it wasn’t your place to tell me the truth?”

“I didn’t want to force you to choose.”

John shook his head and laid his empty glass on the table. He bent forward and cradled his head in his heads.

Kate sighed. _He loves you, John. Get your head out of your fucking ass and look at him._

Sherlock’s voice was quiet. “I am sorry, John. About the child. I know how much –”

John’s shoulders began to shake. Sherlock leaned forward and rested his hand on John’s shoulder. “Sorry.” He took a breath. “Sorry,” he repeated, his voice thick.

John looked up and wiped his eyes. “I’m not upset, you arsehole.”

Sherlock blinked. “I don’t understand. I thought – ”

“Oh, for the love of God. You didn’t force me to choose, I chose a long time ago. The only thing keeping me there was the fact I couldn’t allow a psychopath to raise my baby.”

Sherlock looked at John as if he were a dog that had suddenly learned to speak. “You’re happy about this? I don’t understand – ”

“More like relieved. Like my oncologist just told me that my terminal disease turned out to be gas pains.”

_Don’t say it, Sherlock_ , Kate thought. _Please don’t say it._

“I take it that I am the gas pains in this scenario?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Kate said. Louder than she meant to.

John turned and glared at her. “Uh, Kate, think I can have a minute alone with Sherlock?”

Damn. “Sure. Past my bedtime anyway. Good night.” She slipped past John, grabbed her suitcase and headed upstairs. She paused when she heard John speak.

“She is leaving sometime, right?”

 

//

 

“C’mon, you need to go to bed too,” John said a half hour later. They had fallen silent after Kate left. John stared at Sherlock over the rim of the glass, Sherlock stared at the mantle, lost somewhere down a dark hallway. If John closed his eyes, he could almost imagine they were back in time, back before Mary and the baby. Back before the roof at Bart’s. Back when he knew exactly what would come after this part.

He stood, a little unsteady from the whiskey, took Sherlock’s outstretched hand and helped him out of his chair. He leaned in and pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in fabric softener and the sharp scent of hospital-issue soap.

And then Sherlock did something unexpected. He lifted his hand and cupped John’s face. He stroked his thumb along the ridge of John's eyebrow, let his palm glance across his cheek. Sherlock stilled his hand and looked into John's eyes.

There were a hundred things John wanted to say, things like _I hate you_ and _I love you_ and _we would have been good parents, you and me_ . . . but he knew if he tried to say any of them, they would all sound stupid and wrong . . .

Instead he leaned forward, his hand curving around the back of Sherlock’s head, smoothing though his hair. Sherlock pulled him closer and kissed him. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if no time had passed and they had always been standing together here in the middle of the living room of 221B. Kissing.

When they pulled apart, John’s hand was pressed high on Sherlock chest, just below his throat, feeling one of Sherlock’s collarbones with his thumb. He slid his hand down Sherlock’s chest and felt the outline of his scars through his t-shirt. John realized then he was looking for the changes in Sherlock, the same way Sherlock had searched his face a moment ago.

Some nights, before it had all come crashing to earth, they might have never made it to the bedroom. Some nights Sherlock had just shoved him to the floor or against the table. Some nights John would insist they turn off the lights and climb into bed properly, “like civilized humans,” to which Sherlock would usually roll his eyes and walk slowly to the bedroom, taking off every bit of clothing before he stopped at the door. Seduction had been a line of scientific inquiry for which John had been more than willing to serve as lab rat.

“What are you thinking?” Sherlock’s thumb ran along John’s lower lip.

John closed his eyes and opened his mouth, sucking the thumb onto his tongue. Sherlock sighed and John put his hands on Sherlock’s waist. Moved a hand around to his hip, noting somewhere in his mind that Sherlock’s hips were bone on bone.

Sherlock pulled his thumb from John’s mouth. “You’ll have to sleep with me, John.”

John stared at him for a moment. Of course he’d sleep with Sherlock – _oh Kate._ Right.

“I could take the couch.” John dropped his hands to his side. Took a breath and stepped back. He needed the space to think. Sherlock’s proximity and the whiskey were making him fuzzy.

“Suit yourself.” Sherlock turned to the kitchen.

“Suit myself?” John followed Sherlock. “Really?”

Sherlock held a glass under the tap. John walked behind him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest. Laid his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock turned off the water and stood still. John could feel Sherlock’s chest rapidly rise and fall and he felt the familiar twinge of worry. Should they be doing this . . . whatever _this_ was. He felt Sherlock move a bit and stepped back.

Sherlock turned and pulled John to his chest. The smirk on his face made John’s chest feel hot and his concern fade. Sherlock took one of John’s hands and pulled it to his mouth. John’s eyes closed as Sherlock kissed his palm.

“No, not really,” Sherlock whispered into John’s fingers. “But please keep in mind, I am recently released from hospital.”

John smiled. “I’ll be very quiet. You won’t know I’m there.” He leaned in and kissed Sherlock gently on the lips.

“I always know you’re here, John. Always.” Sherlock took john’s hand and headed toward the bedroom. John managed to flip off the bathroom light as they passed.

John followed Sherlock through the bedroom door and stopped. Pulled his hand from Sherlock’s. Sherlock continued toward the dresser, turning on the lamp.

John didn’t move. He felt paralyzed. The memory of everything that had ever happened in this room had him rooted to the floor. He was uncertain. He was pleased. He was terrified. When he had told Sherlock he’d chosen, he’d been lying. Well, not about his choice, just about this. This retracing of the steps to the place he had been the most happy. He knew there was no coming back from this final step. Not this time. If things went sideways now, he knew he wouldn’t survive. And he wasn’t being drunkenly melodramatic, either.

“Stop all your melodramatic posturing, John.” Sherlock stood in front of him, in a t-shirt and pants. “You’re drunk and I’m practically an invalid. We both need sleep.” He turned and slowly climbed into bed.

“I’m not that drunk.” John muttered. He tugged his jumper over his head and let it drop to the floor. Stepped out of his trousers. “And don’t act like this is all part of your grand plan, eh?” He slid into bed beside Sherlock. “I had a wife and baby five minutes ago.”

Sherlock leaned up on one elbow, staring at John. “I haven’t forgotten.” He leaned down and kissed John.

John pulled Sherlock onto his chest and kissed him back. And any thought of a measured reentry into Sherlock’s orbit fell away as he laced his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, dipping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. He couldn’t get close enough. Sherlock snaked his hand between them and slid a finger under his waistband and John moaned against Sherlock’s lips. His hips rose slightly and Sherlock took John’s cock in his hand.

Somewhere far away, he remembered they probably shouldn’t do this. Not on Sherlock’s first night home. He resolved to lie as quietly as possible which worked until Sherlock replaced his hands with his lips and the heat of Sherlock’s mouth on his cock sent him somewhere where he couldn’t remember anything. He felt Sherlock’s hands move up his chest, fingering his nipples and when Sherlock sucked harder and faster, he heard his own ragged moans as he came with a gasp.

After the fog cleared, John ran his hand down Sherlock’s chest, making a half-hearted attempt to find his cock, but Sherlock swatted John’s hand away. Instead, he snugged in beside John, his head in the curve of John’s neck and whispered the words that they both needed to hear. John absently ran his fingers down Sherlock’s back and listened, letting the timbre in Sherlock’s voice fill in the remaining cracks in his resolve until he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

//

 


	12. Everybody knows that's how it goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All he’d wanted to do for months now was wrap his arms around Sherlock and hang onto him, to stop them both from falling through the cracks. It had taken so long to find him again and now here was Sherlock, scheming to throw it all away. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was beginning to believe we'd see a new Sherlock episode before I finished this. But it's almost done- next chapter will be up tomorrow and the final one by the end of the week. Thanks to everyone who has been so patient.
> 
> And as always, to peg22 for holding my hand and filling in all the empty spaces on the page and in my heart.

Kate woke early. Barely six.  Sleeping upstairs was strange – the bed was comfortable enough, but the room was a depressing shrine to John’s unhappiness. His wedding ring in an ashtray on the dresser, his shirts and sweaters spilling out of an open suitcase, a half-empty bottle of Jameson on the floor by the bed. The walls were bare, dark outlines on the wallpaper where pictures had previously hung. He’d told Kate he’d moved out after Sherlock died, then returned after he found out about Mary. How long would it have taken him to return if Mary had been exactly who she claimed to be? Kate suspected John would have ended up back in Sherlock’s bed eventually.

Missing Chloe had made her a romantic. She’d be embarrassed to say any of that out loud. But everyone deserved a happily ever after. John and Sherlock. Even Mycroft, if Greg was the one. She planned to propose to Chloe the weekend after she flew home – they’d drive out to Montebello, stay at the bed and breakfast Chloe liked so much. She’d fill the room with candles and cover the bedspread with rose petals like she saw on _Grey’s Anatomy._  After Chloe said yes (because there wasn’t any room for _no_ in this daydream), they’d both cry a little, giddy from champagne and happiness. Later she’d take Chloe to bed and . . . Kate closed her eyes, her breath quickening, imagining the press of Chloe’s body against hers, the taste of Chloe on her tongue, her soft moans.  She slipped her hand under the covers and between her legs. _I love you so much._

Then why did she call out Sarah’s name when she came?  Why was love so fucking complicated?

//

She was showered and dressed before John and Sherlock made an appearance. It had snowed during the night – barely a centimetre – but it was coming down fiercely now – big heavy flakes that carpeted the parked cars and balanced on the branches of the bare trees.

She was starving. She opened the fridge and weighed her choices. A few slices of dried cheddar, some eggs, three samosas from Taj Mahal, a jar of something liquid and suspiciously yellow, two brownies on a chipped saucer. “My special recipe. Brought it back from America,” Mrs. Hudson had explained. It had only taken a few bites for Kate to realise what was so special about them. She picked one up, reconsidered, and put it back on the saucer. She couldn’t get buzzed on an empty stomach.

There was a breakfast restaurant a couple of blocks away. Made a decent cheese omelet, even better coffee. She’d give John and Sherlock some morning after privacy. Maybe she’d bring back some muffins and coffee for them if she felt generous.

She wrapped one of John’s scarves around her neck and tucked her still-damp hair into Sherlock’s ridiculous hat, the one he wore in the interview she’d seen on YouTube. She looked around for her purse and noticed the file still sitting on the table. The one John said was from Mycroft. It was heavy, at least three inches thick, a blue satin ribbon tying it together. She found a Tesco bag to protect it from the snow and tucked it under her arm – she’d read it while she ate breakfast.  Most likely none of her business, but what the hell?  

She got as far as the door before she turned and headed back to the kitchen. She wrapped one of the brownies in a napkin and dropped it into her coat pocket. Nothing wrong with a little dessert.

 

She waited until she finished eating before retrieving the file from the bag.  The breakfast rush was over and the restaurant was nearly empty – a couple in one corner holding hands across the table, a woman in a wool coat drinking her third pot of tea.

She untied the ribbon and opened the file. Sarah smiled up at her. _Fuck . . ._ This was Sarah’s file. She recognized the photo, she’d taken it a month before Sarah died. She was standing under a tree by the canal, not far from where she was attacked. How did Mycroft get hold of it? Sarah looked so young, was it really only five years ago? She flipped quickly through the pages – each one a piece of the puzzle of Sarah’s life – photos and bank statements and school records. The flyer for her first exhibition ( _My first show, Kate, can you believe it? I know the space is shit, but it’s a start, right?_ ), a copy of the obituary ( _Sarah Whitehall, beloved daughter of Charles and Linda . . . Cherished older sister to Justin, friend to Kate . . ._ ) She closed the file, her hands shaking. Did she really want to do this? Sarah was dead.

But what had she told John? Families had the right to know what happened to their loved ones. No matter how painful the truth. She believed that, it was why she had joined the Cold Case Unit. But the truth had only brought John unhappiness. Would he have been better off not knowing about Mary’s past? About the baby?

She rearranged the file and re-tied the blue ribbon. She paid the bill and stepped out into the snow. She was suddenly inexplicably homesick and leaned up against a blue Volvo, its windshield covered with frost. Her bare hands sunk into the snow on the hood, and she felt her fingers numb and freeze. Something twisted in her chest and she half-sobbed, covering her face with her frozen hands. “I miss you so much, Sarah.”

But Sarah was always there, in the corner of her mind, in the tracks of her memory, close enough to touch. _You don't have to do this alone._

It was time to go home.

//

John woke to the smell of bacon. For a minute he didn’t know where he was. He turned to see he was alone in bed. He looked toward the door and the ridiculous number of silk robes hung on the hook gave him his bearings. He was in Sherlock’s bed. With Sherlock. Well, not with Sherlock at the moment, but _with_ Sherlock in all the ways that mattered – in all the ways he had imagined for so many nights he had lost count. He pulled the sheet up and let the familiar noises of Baker Street lull him back to sleep-wait, what?

There was the smell of bacon. And no Sherlock. And the smell of bacon. Even his pedestrian deduction skills could suss this one out. Was he going to find Sherlock in the kitchen, cooking bacon in a proper skillet, apron wrapped around his naked ass? Did three of his best fantasies just merge?

Kate. Fuck. It was probably Kate. Kate _I’m never leaving_ Bryant. Fixing them some kind of weird celebration/condolence breakfast. Surely Sherlock would never allow . . .

“Oh, you’re awake.” Sherlock stood in the doorway, wrapped in an apron. And a robe. _Some fantasies are made to be broken_. “I don’t have the correct spatula, and Mrs. Hudson will not answer my queries, so I hope you like scrambled.” He stepped into the room. “Do you think this juice is juice?” He held up a jar of yellowish liquid.

John didn’t know what to answer first. He pulled himself up on his elbows and started to speak, but Sherlock had already crossed the room and was leaning down toward him, eyebrow raised. He reached up and pulled Sherlock close. Their mouths met, tentative at first, but then John tasted salt and coffee and he felt Sherlock press against him and he kissed him hard and long and John fell back against the mattress and Sherlock’s hands were everywhere. For a brief moment, John wondered what happened to the juice that might not be juice, but then Sherlock’s fingers slid down toward his cock, and he forget everything else that was in his head.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear ten minutes later. His legs were stretched across John and his fingers were laced through John’s hair.

“Yeah, good morning to you.” John smiled and poked Sherlock’s stomach. “You’re crushing me, though.”

Sherlock sighed and moved his legs off John. He swung them around and sat on the edge of the bed. “Definitely not juice.”

John peeked over the bed at the spilled jar, the liquid turning the wood floor an interesting green colour.

“Any sign of Kate yet?” John asked. He stood and lifted one of Sherlock’s robes from the hook behind the door.

“She’s _oot_ ,” Sherlock answered in his best Canadian accent. “Nicked the file from the table on her way.”

“The one Mycroft gave me? What was it – his Christmas list?” He slipped into one of Sherlock’s robes and looked down. It came depressingly down to his ankles.

Sherlock grabbed each end of the robe’s belt and pulled John toward him. “Mine, actually. Kate’s given me a lovely little case to solve –her other significant other. Murdered five years ago. A case that in normal circumstances would merit no more than a five. But I’ve decided to help her.” He kissed John again, then pushed him away, smiling. “And I’ve cooked breakfast for us, John. It’s the dawn of a new age.”

//

They’d finished their toast (burnt) and eggs (John had never seen scrambled eggs that colour) and bacon (perfect) and traded sections of the newspaper back and forth until Sherlock finally said what he’d been waiting to say all morning. Or at least that was John’s take on it.

“My mother rang. While you were sleeping. She’s invited us for Christmas.”

“Us?”

“Well, not _us_ us, of course. Me. And well, you. Do you have plans for Christmas?”

“Plans?”

“She suggested you make your famous plum pudding. Why she believes you make Christmas pudding is beyond me.”

John cleared his throat. “They invited me the first Christmas you were dead. I almost didn’t go – but I felt sorry for them.  Almost as sorry as I felt for myself.  I bought a plum pudding at Harrod’s – then momentarily lost my mind and pretended I’d made it.  I suppose I wanted them to think I was getting on with things . . .”

“Did they?” he asked, and then more quietly, “Were you?”

John shrugged. “I managed not to blubber into my mash, if that’s what you’re asking. I did wonder at the time why they seemed to be handling it so well . . .”

“Sorry.”

“Another thousand of those and I might begin to believe you.” John stood and started clearing the dishes.

Sherlock’s hand circled John’s wrist and pulled him back. “Sorry,” he said again.

John nodded and carried the plates to the kitchen. His phone vibrated as he walked back to the table. He picked it up and swiped his thumb across the screen. He blinked and stared.  When he finally spoke, his voice was a low growl.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. What have the fuck have you done?”

//

_You leave Essex at dawn. You leave Tony alone in the bed, twisted in the covers and washed with the cold morning light. It snowed during the night and the grass under your shoes is hard with frost, the sky overcast._

_You drive back to London on the A12. The road is slick from the snow so you drive carefully. You blast the heater and sing along to the radio. Twenty minutes in, your phone pings and you resist the urge to look. Probably Tony, angry that you left without saying good-bye. John stopped texting months ago but you know he’ll be back. Holding out his arms for your daughter. Trying desperately to forgive you._

_It’s been a long night, a long week, month, year.  You’re exhausted and beat up on the inside, your lower back throbbing, but you run your tongue over your teeth, thinking about Tony shivering and pushing into your mouth, his hands fisted in your hair. He’s becoming a problem – you thought lying to him about the baby would send him skittering back into the dark, but it’s puffed him up somehow, made him proud. Possessive._

_You get home and turn on the kettle.  You go through yesterday’s mail while you wait for it to boil. Just bills and adverts, a reminder from the clinic about your next appointment. You’ve stopped looking for a letter from him. In any case, he’s hardly the type who writes letters. He’ll just show up, won’t he? And make you feel that you’ve been the one keeping him waiting._

_You look east, into the rising sun, and feel a staggering pull in your chest. You remind yourself, over and over, that it’s only a few more weeks, just a little while longer, not too much longer before he makes his move; his grandiose return from the not so dead and your life will begin again._

_//_

Sherlock looked up from the newspaper. “Sorry?”

John held out the phone. “This text. It’s from Mary. She’s accepted _my_ invitation to spend Christmas at your parents.”

“Wonderful.” He turned back to the newspaper.

“Have you lost your bloody mind?” He began pacing. “ _Please pass the turkey, Mary. More pudding, Mary? Shot anyone lately, Mary?”_

“Goose.”

“What?”

“Goose. My mother always serves goose.”

John grabbed the newspaper from Sherlock and tossed it to the floor. He leaned over, palms pressed flat against the table and hissed, “What are you playing at, Sherlock?”

Sherlock laid one hand on John’s arm. “Last night. You said things. Things I choose to believe.”

John sighed and felt the anger blow out of him. He sat, put his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands. All he’d wanted to do for months now was wrap his arms around Sherlock and hang onto him, to stop them both from falling through the cracks. It had taken so long to find him again and now here was Sherlock, scheming to throw it all away.

“But _this_? _This_ is your plan? I don’t know if I can . . .” John’s voice collapsed. He looked up and Sherlock was watching him, and John caught his breath, because Sherlock looked perfect in that moment, all pure blue eyes and dark hair and clean hollows and suddenly he felt a small warmth expanding in his chest, finding its way through his veins to his heart, settling into his blood and bones. He trusted him.

John trusted Sherlock.

He reached out and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s wrist. “Okay,” he said and heard Sherlock exhale. John counted out Sherlock’s pulse, steady and strong, and thought that if this was all the happiness he was ever allowed, sitting next to Sherlock, holding onto his wrist, then it would be enough.

 


	13. Everbody's got this broken feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate's back home. Sherlock's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done here. One more after this one....
> 
> Thanks again to peg22 for everything.

**_Ottawa Citizen_ **

**_Wednesday, December 12, 2012 (AP)._ **

_Two senior executives of an Alberta mining company were arrested yesterday and charged with conspiracy and first-degree murder in the death of Peter Goodale. At the time of his death, Mr. Goodale, 38, was Conservative Member of Parliament for Peace River, Alberta. Mr. Goodale was shot and killed outside the Elgin Fitness Centre in Ottawa on February 20, 2002. Investigators initially concluded that the murder was a failed carjacking attempt. At the time of Mr. Goodale’s death, the suspects, Matthew Hunter, 47, and Gordon Shevchenko, 52, were employed by Wild Rose Mining Corporation. No motive for the murder was disclosed by investigators._

_The case was recently transferred to the Cold Case Unit of the Ottawa Division of the RCMP.  Superintendent Mark McPherson credits the hard work of his team in identifying the “smoking gun” – wire transfers from one of the accused’s bank accounts to a numbered company in Ottawa. The numbered company was traced to Irish national James Moriarty. Mr. Moriarty, who had an extensive criminal history in Great Britain, disappeared in 2010 and is presumed dead._

_A preliminary hearing is scheduled for January 24, 2013 in Ottawa. Martin Ayon, lawyer for Gordon Shevchenko, says his client will plead not guilty. Mr. Hunter could not be reached for comment._

//

**_Ottawa Citizen_ **

**_Friday, December 28, 2012 (AP)._ **

_A spokesperson from CM Global News announced the death on Christmas Day of the company’s founder and CEO, Charles Magnussen, from an apparent heart attack at his country estate eighty kilometers east of London. An autopsy will be performed, but no foul play is suspected._

_Charles Magnussen, aged 48, was born in Denmark and educated at Cambridge. He began his career . . ._

//

_Just found out about CAM. Heart attack, eh? Anything you need to tell me?_

Kate

 

Nope

SH

_What I thought. Where are you?_

London, I suspect. For now.

_WTF? John?_

Safe

_Baby Mama?_

With John

_Fuck_

Precisely

_Have you talked to him?_

No

_Why not?_

 

 

_Still there?_

Yes

_Mycroft?_

Playing chess

_Do I need to come back?_

In 6 months   

_??_

Good-bye Kate.

_//_

_It’s minus 20 Celsius the day you arrive and the sky is blue enough to hurt.  Your breath is a white cloud in the sunlight._

_“I hate winter,” the taxi driver tells you. He complains about the traffic and the economy and the never ending winter. He parks in front of the hotel and carries your suitcase into the lobby. “You’ll be all right, miss?” he says but he means “_ Where’s your husband?” _Your answer is a smile and a nod and a ten dollar tip. You fall into bed, exhausted from the flight, but the baby refuses to let you sleep. She kicks you again and again and you try hard not to take it personally._

_You tell yourself you’ll wait for him for another ten minutes, another hour, another week. You pass the time watching TV, CSI reruns and reality shows and baking competitions._

_After two weeks, you rent a furnished apartment near the hospital. It’s small and damp and dark, but the heating works and you can catch free Wi-Fi from the restaurant downstairs. The temperature creeps up to minus 5 and you walk to the bookstore on the corner. You wander through the aisles and buy a thin volume of Alice Munro stories.  You drink green tea from cardboard cups and eat pizza each night from the restaurant downstairs._

_One morning there’s a large box outside your door with a note taped to the top._ From Misha and Elena – for the little one. _Your neighbours_. _You’ve never spoken to them, but you see them watch you, whisper about you in Russian. You don’t let on you understand._

_The box is full of tiny clothes – not new, but not old. They are clean and carefully folded – blues and pinks and that special shade of green reserved for babies. You lay each one on the bed – and when you’re done, they fill the coverlet like a tiny trousseau. For the first time in a long time, you feel the faint stirrings of doubt and loss but refuse to cry. Later, you choose a pink sleeper and knitted wool sweater and add them to the overnight bag by the door._

_Your labour, when it finally begins, is easier than you remember.  Saying good-bye will be harder._

 

**April 2, 2013**

**Ottawa**

 

The waitress set down the pot of tea and plate of lemon scones in front of her. “Anything else, miss?”

“No, that’s all, thanks.”

“It’s still a bit chilly out here. There’s an empty table inside if you change your mind.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Kate warmed her hands around the pot. The waitress was right, it was too soon to be dining _al fresco_.  But it had been a long winter and she longed for any sign that spring had finally arrived.  It was the first mild day and everyone was out walking, like prisoners released from months in solitary.

She sipped her tea and scrolled through the news on her phone. Hockey, politics, more hockey. The Senators had made the playoffs by the skin of their teeth and were fighting off elimination by the Rangers.  She scrolled some more, settling on a Huffington Post article about One Direction.  She still nursed a not-so-secret crush on Harry Styles. 

Two e-mails from their real estate agent in Toronto. _If you want to make an offer on the Glendale house, you better decide soon. It will go quickly._ And another an hour ago – _Let me know by the end of the day._

Toronto. New city. New job. And in three months, if she survived the wedding, a new wife. Everything she wanted. Sometimes though, it was all a bit . . . much. So she escaped to The Scone Witch to drink tea and eat scones and just breathe.   

The tea was cooling quickly in the cold air and she asked the waitress for another pot. _God, look at me. Tea and scones in the middle of the afternoon. Mrs. Hudson would be pleased._ She shut off her phone, closed her eyes and tilted her head back. It was wonderful to feel the warmth of the sun on her face again.

“May I?”

She opened her eyes and watched the rest of her scone disappear into Sherlock’s mouth.

He slid into the chair opposite her, unwinding his scarf. “I’d pay a small fortune if I could get them to ship these overseas.” He fingered another one off the plate and lifted it to his mouth.

Kate managed to find her voice. “I’ve killed for less.”

He lowered the scone back to the plate. Raised an eyebrow. Waited.

The two hundred questions swirling in Kate’s brain settled into just one, and she stood, moved around the table and wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him. She felt him stiffen and stopped – could he still have lingering pain from his injuries? – but just as quickly she was enveloped in his arms as he pulled her close. For just a moment.

And then the moment was over and Kate stood. Raised her own eyebrow, her hands moving to her hips.

“What the hell are you doing in Ottawa?”

 

Twenty minutes, six scones and two pots of tea later, she had told him almost every single detail of her life and had gotten precisely four pieces of information from him: Mrs. Hudson was fine, Lestrade sent his best wishes, Magnussen had no vaults, and Mary was gone.

  
“No leads on where she might have gone?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“And Moriarty?” Kate wondered if her bladder could take another round of non-answers.

“Other than that ridiculous display in January, for which I should be grateful I suppose, not a trace.”

“Grateful?”

Sherlock looked at Kate and took another sip of tea. Where he was putting it at this point was a mystery. She’d already been to the washroom twice.

“It’s classified.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Which is Sherlock speak for too personal or too painful or both.”

“Sherlock-speak? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. It’s irritating.”

Sherlock smiled and set the teacup on the table. “There are . . . consequences to shooting a man in cold blood on Christmas in front of a dozen witnesses.”

“You did not.”

“ _Mais oui._ Not my best plan, I admit.”

Kate shook her head. “You think? I tried to tell you that, if you recall.” She stood and waved at the waitress. “I’m cold. Let’s walk.”

Sherlock nodded, stood up and walked inside. Kate zipped her jacket and grabbed Sherlock’s scarf, wrapping it around her neck. Sherlock reappeared with a large box and stared at her.

“I’m cold. And this scarf is warm.”

Sherlock opened the gate to the terrace and gestured Kate through. “Alpaca. From Peru.”

“Fancy.” Kate waited as he closed the gate and they walked down the sidewalk. Her apartment was three blocks in the opposite direction, but she didn’t think she should spring Sherlock on Chloe as a surprise – best to give her time to prepare. After Kate’s return from London, Chloe’s favourite response to anything she said about the trip had been, ‘Fuck Sherlock Holmes’”. Yes, the Parliament buildings were a better destination.

“So, go on,” Kate said as they walked down the street, the sun still sneaking between the buildings, “why are you grateful to Moriarty for his little trick? Is that why Mary left? What about John? Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t mentioned him yet.”

Sherlock sighed beside her. “Can we sit? I am not prepared to lay bare all the bits of my soul while walking by a Starbucks.”

“What’s wrong with Starbucks?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just took her arm, led her across the street – against the lights, to a chorus of honks, and onto a small bench next to a tree, a trash can, and a statue of Terry Fox. The Parliament buildings loomed in the near distance and a handful of tourists walked by, snapping pictures and chatting.

“I abhor Starbucks,” Sherlock spoke, staring at the statue. “But that’s beside the point.”

“You know who that is?” Kate gestured toward the statue of a young man in mid stride, prosthetic leg trailing behind.

Sherlock squinted in the sun. “Terry Fox.” He looked back at Kate. “I did mention I spent some time in your country.”

“Yeah. Just checking.”

“Anyone who spends more than ten minutes in Canada knows about Terry Fox.”

Kate smiled. “We’re kind of obnoxious about him, aren’t we?”

“No comment,” he said, smiling.

She looked closely at him. “You’re different. I mean, you seem, well, happier.”

Sherlock leaned against Kate’s shoulder. “Your way of fishing for more personal information?”

“Always, but no. I mean it. You look good, Sherlock. That’s good. I’m glad.”

“I accept the compliment. Now, I know you are just waiting to spring more questions upon me so . . .”

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock sighed and folded his hands together in his lap. “John is fine.”

“No, not _how_ is John . . . _where_ is John?”

“Mary’s disappearance was a shock for him. And in many ways, a relief.”

Not an answer, but she’d try to be patient a bit longer. “When did she leave?”

Sherlock frowned. “Less than 24 hours after Moriarty’s broadcast.”

“Your text said John was with her.”

“He was . . . until he wasn’t.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Sherlock. Just tell me what the hell happened.”

“What the hell happened, as you put it, was that the siren call of her old lover slash boss proved too much for the former Mrs. Watson, and she was on the first flight out of London. John and I were a bit distracted, what with the threat of a returning Moriarty, and Mycroft was adamant we find him first.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. But I am not convinced he survived the rooftop. I witnessed his death.”

“Like John witnessed yours. Yet here you sit.”

“Touché.”

“And John?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“He stayed with you through all of this?”

“He continues to reside at Baker Street, yes-“

“Really? You think I want his address?”

“I think you want to know what we may not know ourselves.”

“Are you together or not?”

“We are . . . forging ahead.”

She had no idea what that meant. “And . . ?”

“And he knows my feelings have not changed and we . . . we are working through our issues.”

“ _Working through your issues?_  Did you read that somewhere?”

“Of course. But it describes the situation accurately. John is and will be forever questioning his decisions, his motives . . . not to mention mine . . .”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a single piece of paper, folded. “Aren’t you a bit curious as to why I’m in Ottawa, Kate?”

Kate recognized that move. Get too close to an uncomfortable truth and Sherlock deflected. She looked at the paper. “Of course . . . I just . . .”

“Apart from the first words you said to me, you’ve never questioned my presence in your city. Sloppy detective work, I think.”

“Bullshit – I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.” She held out her hand for the paper. “Do you want to tell me or are you going to watch me read it?”

“Your choice.”

“Is it about Sarah? You found something?”

“Yes.”

He sounded sympathetic and that frightened her. “Just tell me.” She sat up straighter. Closed her eyes and held her breath. She’d waited almost six years for this moment.

He reached for her hand. “Jean-Guy Therrien is an inmate at Archambault Prison near Montreal. Eighteen months ago, he was two years into a ten year sentence for the sexual assault of his ex-girlfriend’s daughter when a second woman came forward and accused Therrien of assaulting her. Given the overwhelming evidence against him, he knew he would be convicted if the case went to trial. So he attempted to negotiate.”

“What was he offering?”

“Information about an unsolved murder.”

“Sarah’s?”

“Yes.  His former cellmate – Paul Diorio – had boasted to Therrien that he’d killed a girl and gotten away with it.” 

She shook her head. “Inmates talk. Maybe he heard about it from someone else. It was all over the news.” 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded white envelope. He opened it and lifted out a gold ring. He held it out to her in the palm of his hand. “Diorio always wore this on his pinkie finger. Do you recognize it?”

Kate took it from him with shaking fingers. She held it up and found it – _me and thee_ – engraved on the inside of the ring.  “I saw it on an old 70s cop show. It was corny but it suited us.” She closed her hand tightly around the ring. “I don’t understand. If all this came out – what did you say – eighteen months ago, why did I never hear about it?”

“Two weeks after Therrien told his lawyer this story, Diorio was killed in a fight with another inmate. His lawyer expected that no one would believe Therrien, especially since Diorio was dead, so he never went to the police. I’m sorry, Kate.”

“And you’re sure it was him?”

“Yes. The ring was not the only evidence. My investigation was quite thorough. We could go to the police, but I’m not sure what purpose it would serve.”

“So it’s over.” She wiped at her eyes.

“Not the outcome you had hoped for, I expect, but you may find a certain peace in knowing the man who killed Sarah is dead.”

She was suddenly cold, and pulled her coat tight around her. “Do you have a picture of Diorio?”

“Not with me, no.”

“What about the money? The US account you found?”

“Are you sure?”

She wasn’t sure at all. But she nodded.

“She was smuggling stolen art across the US-Canada border. Her contact would pass a canvas to her in New York and she would simply carry it across the border mixed in with her own work. She was young and attractive and no one paid attention.  She was paid $5,000 for each delivery – a pittance compared to how much the paintings later sold for. Someone else would pick them up from her in Ottawa. She died before she was able to drop off the last one.”

“Two weeks after she was killed, someone broke into our apartment. Nothing seemed to be missing except her portfolio case. I never reported it.” She leaned into Sherlock and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Why would she do it?”

“I suspect it was easy. And possibly exciting.”  
  
She was still holding the ring in her hand and now she opened her fist and stared at it. “I need to go home.”

//

She stopped a block from her apartment. Collapsed onto the nearest bench and cried. Into Sherlock’s fancy South American scarf, she wept for Sarah, for herself, for the terrible waste of a beautiful life. Their beautiful life.

And in the middle of it all, she felt relief. There were no more questions. The answers were far from the ones she wanted. But they were answers. Definitive. Solid. Final.  And so fucking sad.

She pulled the ring from her pocket.  Slipped it on her finger.  Her ring finger. It slid down her knuckle, resting against the one already there – silver with two small garnets, her Christmas/engagement present from Chloe. She stared at the rings and tears fell again. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find a place where her past and future didn’t crash together, destroying everything. She felt consumed by the _could have would have if only_ of it all  . . . if Sarah hadn’t died . . . no Cold Case, no Chloe, no Sherlock . . .

He’d actually looked concerned when she’d abruptly turned to leave, a half-hearted “I’ll call you later” tossed at him as she left him standing by Terry Fox, both in mid-stride. She hoped for a minute he’d follow her – to suck all the horrible emotions out of her with his cold hard logic.

But now she was glad she was alone – except for two old ladies discreetly looking her way as they strolled past. She wiped her eyes with the scarf and gave them a nod. They smiled and carried on. She took a deep breath and slipped the ring off her finger, putting it on the opposite hand.

She thought about Chloe, waiting at home, probably fixing dinner, or finishing paperwork, or sneaking in an episode of Real Housewives of Some Dumb City . . . she smiled thinking how fast she always reached for the remote when she heard Kate coming through the door. Dreck, that stuff. Chloe was fascinated with it – told Kate it reminded her how lucky they were. How good they had it. Their life seemed perfect in comparison.

She stood and pulled the scarf tight around her neck. Sherlock was not getting it back. She would consider it a wedding gift. She wondered if she should invite him over to the house or maybe they should all meet in a neutral location – like a Starbucks.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out. Probably Chloe. Maybe work. She didn’t recognize the number, but answered.

“Inspector Bryant?”

She didn’t recognize the voice. Older woman. Maybe from the 2005 homicide she’d started on last week. Young woman, found in Nepean, strangled . . .

“This is Beverly Ashcroft.”

She stopped walking _.  No way. No fucking way._

“Inspector?”

“Yes, Mrs. Ashcroft. Uh, how are you?”

“Well, I know it’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”

 _Almost a year, but who’s counting_. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m not sure I should be talking to you, but you did say if there was anything . . .”

Kate chose to ignore the skittering of something very bad along her spine. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ashcroft, there is still no development in your daughter’s case-“

“She’s here.”

Kate gripped the phone too tight and it almost slipped out of her hand. “Pardon?”

“Well, not here right now exactly.”

“Wait, you mean Anna – you’ve had contact with Anna?” _Fucking Mary._

“I wanted to call you right away, you were so kind to Richard and me, but Anna said-“

“Are you sure? How do you know it was your daughter?” Grasping at straws of course – she knew damn fucking well it was Anna/Mary.

“I saw her with my own eyes, Inspector. She came to visit us.”

“When?” She knew the answer. She just needed confirmation.  Identity.  Location. And then she would find her and kill her. Sherlock would just have to get in line.

“Right after Christmas. In January. It was quite a surprise.”

 _Oh I’m sure._ Giant pregnant Mary returns . . . “Wait, you’re certain it was Anna, your daughter?  It’s been a long time.”

“I know my own daughter, Inspector.”

She needed to be careful. Right now Mrs. Ashcroft saw her as an ally. She needed to keep it that way.

“That’s amazing. You must be over the moon. I can’t believe it.”

“I knew you’d understand. Apparently Anna’s work is very confidential. For the government, you know.  She told me not to tell anyone she was here, but I knew you’d want to know.”

Kate closed her eyes. She and Mrs. Ashcroft had initially bonded over a shared loss – the pain of so many unanswered questions. But now she wanted Kate to share in her good fortune. But why had Mary risked getting in contact with her parents? After all these years?

“Where is she now?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. She’s been to visit twice. And of course we were there when the baby was born.”

 _Fucking fucking fucking hell._ “The baby?”

“Oh, I am such an idiot – yes, the baby! Anna was pregnant when she showed up. Quite far along, really.” Mrs. Ashcroft spoke softer, as if she thought someone could hear. “Apparently her husband works in counter-terrorism. He couldn’t come with her – Anna was very upset when she got here. I was quite worried. But he’ll be here soon, so it’s all going to be fine . . .”

“Who will? Her husband?” 

There was no answer and Kate looked at the phone, thinking she had lost the call. “Mrs. Ashcroft?”

“I think I’ve said too much already.”

Kate frowned. Did she say something to spook her? Obviously Mary/Anna had instructed her parents not to tell anyone about her. But her life as an international assassin had not prepared her to deal with a mother who knows best about her daughter. Fatal flaw it would seem.

“No, no I’m happy for you. It’s just such a  . . . surprise.”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know you can stop looking. We’ve found our Anna. Or she found us, I should say.”

_And Sherlock just happens to show up at the Scone Witch . . . fucking hell._

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.  We haven’t talked to her in a month. She sends us texts, though.”

“And the baby?”

She heard a noise in the background and someone speaking.

“Mrs. Ashcroft? Maybe I can come over – talk to you about this in person.”

“Oh, no dear, that won’t be necessary. Really. It’s all fine. You can just close up that file on Anna. She’s fine and we’re fine and it’s been nice to talk to you but I have to go. Goodbye.”

Kate stared at her phone. Fuck. So Mary was alive. And had been in contact with her parents she hadn’t seen in over ten years. And had given birth to not John’s baby in Canada. And was gone again. If she could believe her mother. Which she knew she couldn’t. Every bit of her intuition was screaming at her, reaffirming everything she already knew. That Anna/Mary was probably still in Canada.  That Sherlock Holmes was a fucking liar. And that the sound she heard right before Mrs. Ashcroft ended the call was most certainly a baby.

“Oh for crying out loud!”

She turned around in the middle of the sidewalk, heading back downtown. This time she was not going to be distracted by scones, or scarves, or anything else Sherlock Holmes wanted to throw her way. She texted Chloe that she’d be late for dinner. Again.


	14. Everybody knows that you live forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it all comes down to this.

John glanced at the clock – 6:30 – and wondered again if he should have gone with Sherlock to meet Kate. But she would’ve had a hundred questions for him and he was fresh out of answers.

He sat on the too-soft hotel bed, his eyes tired and swollen, and read the report one more time.

 

 

**_Canadian DNA Services, Inc._ **

[ _https://canadiandna.ca_ ](https://canadiandna.ca)

**_Mother_ ** _: WATSON, MARY_

_**Alleged Father** : WATSON, JOHN H _

**_Probability of Paternity_ ** _= 99.99%_

**_Conclusion_ **

_The alleged father, JOHN H. WATSON, cannot be excluded as the biological father of test subject, girl, aged 2 months. Based on the genetic testing results, the probability of paternity is 99.99% when compared to an untested random man of the North American population. At least 99.99% of the population is excluded from the possibility of being the biological father of the child._

“The results won’t change, no matter how many times you read them.” 

John looked up. “I didn’t hear you come in. How did Kate handle the news about Sarah?” 

“Upset, but not overwrought.” Sherlock took the report from John and slid it back into the envelope. 

“That’s good, then. Are you seeing her again?” 

“I don’t know.” 

John picked up the remote control, flicking through the channels. News and game shows and an episode of _Coronation Street_. If it weren’t for the accents, he could be back in London.  He turned it off and lay back on the bed, hands pressed to his face. 

When he looked up again, Sherlock had gone to stand by the window, one hand stretched out, gripping the frame, looking down at the street. John rose and went to join him, Sherlock moving his arm so they could stand side by side. 

“I want to take her home with us,” John said. It was the first time he’d said it out loud and until that moment, he hadn’t been sure it was true. 

“Kate? She could be rather useful, I suppose.” 

John smiled and drew him closer, tilting his head to press his lips just under Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock kissed him, long and deep and low. 

He pulled back and looked at Sherlock. Wished he could just walk into that mind palace and find the room where they’d both be okay with this new . . . development. Sherlock stared back, nothing on his face. John would just have to believe what came out of his mouth. 

“No, not Kate.” _My daughter_. John tugged Sherlock over to the bed. They sat and Sherlock crossed his legs and looked at John. 

“Chloe will be relieved.” 

John frowned. “Don’t make jokes. Not about this.” He wasn’t sure he could say any of it again. Wasn’t even quite sure he really believed it yet, but here it was – his almost forgotten happily ever after fantasy. 

“Sorry.” 

John rubbed his palms against his trousers. “I mean it, Sherlock. I want . . . I need . . . we have to take her home.” He paused, and then added in case there was any doubt, “to Baker Street.” 

Sherlock sighed. “The paperwork alone will give my brother a stroke. Not to mention the thought of having to provide security for an infant. . .” 

“What does this have to do with your  . . . oh . . .” John stopped talking because the answer he wanted, but had never expected, had been tangled up in all the odd details. “You mean you’re actually . . . you’re not . . . you do understand what this means, right?” 

Sherlock put his hand on John’s knee and sighed again. “I think the idea, although riddled with complications and highly unorthodox, has merit.” 

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” 

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John on the cheek. “It means that my only goal here is to make you reasonably happy. With me, with us, with our life. I wouldn’t have encouraged you to take the test if I weren’t prepared to live with the consequences. You are an honourable man, John Watson, and we’re both the better for it.” 

“But you and me and a baby? Mary’s baby, of all things. It’s the plot of a bad movie.” 

Sherlock stood and turned to face John. “Yes, it is the most ridiculous, ill-advised, shortsighted thing the two of us will ever attempt. I predict the probability of failure at an all time high. The presence of Mrs. Hudson adds a scant twelve percent on the positive side, but that doesn’t really swing the pendulum any closer.” 

John stood and took Sherlock’s hands in his. “Is all this babbling a yes?”

“You do know what happens to people with babies?” Sherlock shuddered. And then pulled John close. “But, yes, it’s a yes. Because the thought of this child growing up without her father – the person she needs the most in her life – who is also the person I need most in my life, is untenable. What are we calling her?” 

“Violet.” John choked out the name of his daughter for the first time. “Violet Grace.” It felt strange and wonderful and frightening. “Violet after my grandmother and Grace –” 

“— after mine.” 

“You don’t mind?” 

Sherlock bent down and kissed him. John reached up and pulled Sherlock closer, letting every remaining bit of doubt wash away in the heat of this moment, and it was about as close to perfect as either one of them was ever going to get. 

“I look forward to the opportunity to observe such a young and unspoiled subject—”

“Absolutely not.” John pulled his head away and shoved against Sherlock’s chest. “No. No way. You are going nowhere near my daughter with your experiments.” All the doubt that had been kissed away was back with a vengeance.

“I said observe, John. Observe.” 

“And I said no. Christ, Sherlock, it’s going to be hard enough as it is without you writing down every bloody thing she does.” John thought for a moment he’d made a huge mistake. Raising a child with Sherlock – within fifty feet of Sherlock – was probably not a smart idea. And then he looked at Sherlock’s face. He was smiling. Smirking, really. 

“You’re taking the mick, aren’t you?” 

Sherlock pulled John close. “I am doing no such thing. I am wondering though, when we can stop talking about babies and start talking about things that really matter. Like dinner.” He gestured to the bed. “And . . . bed. We need to make the most of these last few moments of freedom before . . .” 

John never heard the end of the sentence because the knock on the door was so loud he was sure he felt it in his teeth. 

Startled, they both stepped back. 

John put his hands to his ears when the pounding started again. “Christ, who the hell is that?” 

Sherlock walked past John to the door and looked through the peephole. “You’re not getting in until you stop all that noise.” 

The knocking stopped and to John’s surprise, Sherlock unlocked and opened the door. 

Kate stood with hands on her hips, furious. 

“Oh, hello Kate.” 

She swept into the room, glanced at John and turned back to Sherlock, who was closing the door.  

“Don’t you _hello Kate_ me, you asshole.” 

Instead of answering, Sherlock walked past her to the chair by the window and sat down. 

John was confused. “Uh, Kate, what’s wrong?” 

Kate swung her attention to John. “You don’t get to talk yet.” She turned back to Sherlock. “ _I’m so sorry Kate, are you sure you’re okay Kate, oh yeah, John and I are forging ahead –_ you are a fucking fucking liar.”

John tried to interrupt, but Sherlock shook his head. 

Kate continued. “Mary is here! You didn’t think you might mention that to me?” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised but he didn’t speak. 

John couldn’t remain silent. “She’s not here, Kate.” 

“John, I don’t think . . .” Sherlock held up his hand. 

“No, you don’t think.” Kate’s fists were held tightly to her side. “When were you planning on telling me the real reason you’re in Ottawa? Huh?” She lowered her head and when she looked back at Sherlock, her eyes were wet.  “I thought you were actually showing some human empathy, coming here to tell me about Sarah. I thought . . .” Kate swallowed hard and the anger drained from her. She bit her lip and stared at Sherlock. 

John spoke first. “Sit down, Kate.” He led her to the bed and she sat on the edge, still staring at Sherlock. 

John put his hand on her shoulder. “Can I get you anything? Water? There’s no Diet Pepsi . . .” 

“Water’s fine.” Kate wiped her hands across her eyes. She looked at Sherlock. “Are you going to say anything?” 

“I arranged to meet you at the Scone Witch because I wanted to tell you about Sarah. I also told you we didn’t know where was Mary was.” 

“A lie.” 

John shook his head. “Not precisely.” 

Kate turned to John. “Not precisely? Are you or are you not in Ottawa because Mary is here?” 

John and Sherlock exchanged a look and Sherlock stood. 

“Mary is not here.” Sherlock said. “She was here. From what we can tell, she left Canada almost a month ago.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s all good but her mother just called me.” 

John looked at Sherlock again.

“And if you don’t stop doing that, I swear I’ll kill you both.” 

“Doing what?” John stood. 

Kate stood and set the bottle on the table next to the bed. “Every time I say something, you two look at each other. It’s fucking irritating.” 

“Why did Mary’s mother call you?” Sherlock asked. 

“No, you don’t get answers until I get answers. How did you find out Mary was here?” 

Sherlock started to explain something about the old patterns and the balance of probability, but John held up his hand.  “She called me,” John said. 

“Mary called you? When?”

John sighed. “Three weeks ago. A few weeks after my daughter . . .” 

“ _Your_ daughter? I thought . . .” 

“We all thought, but there’s been a test and well, it turns out she’s mine.” 

Sherlock walked over and stood next to John. Took John’s hand in his. John was surprised, but immediately felt better. About everything. 

Kate stared at Sherlock. “So you were wrong about everything.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Every single thing.  Admit it.”

“I admit no such thing.”

Kate held up a finger. “One, you were wrong about Magnussen.”

“I was mistaken about the location of the vaults.”

“Whatever. Two, you were wrong that Mary was after me. And Chloe.”

“Yet to be ascertained.”

“Bullshit. Three, you were wrong about the baby.”

 “It was the only reasonable conclusion based on the facts –”

“Your conclusion was wrong. Admit it. Sloppy detective work, isn’t that what you said to me?”

“We can hardly compare—”

“And the only reason you’re not in jail is because Mycroft saved your ass. That must have killed you – accepting help from your brother.”

“You have no idea.”

“Enough!” John shouted. “Both of you. Not another word.” He pointed to the chair by the window. “Sherlock, sit down.” He turned to Kate and pointed to the couch. “You, sit over there.”

Kate and Sherlock glanced at each other, at John, and sat.

John stood between them. Scrubbed his face. Muttered something about idiots disguised as geniuses. He looked at Kate. “How far back do I need to go?”

Kate shrugged and Sherlock opened his mouth, but John held up his hand. “Well, we did plan to come to Canada with the news about Sarah. But then we heard from Mary and since she was our best link to Moriarty . . .”

“Only link,” Sherlock corrected.

John ignored him and continued. “We had nothing. That broadcast in January and then nothing. We suspected Mary went to join Moriarty – so when she called . . .”

“You had to talk to her. I get that.” Kate nodded. “But the baby?”

“Mary didn’t want to see me – she just called to tell me the baby was mine if I wanted her.”

“Your baby.”

“Yes, as it turns out. We didn’t believe her at first . . . but this proves it.” John handed Kate the envelope with the DNA test.

She scanned the letter and let out a breath. “Damn . . .” She looked over to Sherlock and mouthed the word “wrong” to which he rolled his eyes.

John sat on the bed. “There was no trace of Mary or Moriarty in Ottawa. Honestly, I don’t think Moriarty was ever here. She left the baby with her parents, as I guess you know.”

“Her mother didn’t want to tell me anything. I assume you’re the secret undercover father?”

“Apparently. I’m supposed to see her parents tomorrow. Meet my daughter. Until today, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. But they seem happy the baby’s going to be with her father . . . with me.” John looked at Sherlock. “With us.”

Sherlock stood. “Yes, yes, that’s all well and good.”

Kate stood and walked over to John. “Congratulations.” John stood and Kate hugged him. “Good luck with this one, though.”

John kissed her on the cheek. “I don’t know what’s worse.” He squeezed her tight and whispered, “I’m sorry about Sarah, Kate.”

Kate nodded and stepped back. “Yeah, it sucks.” She watched as Sherlock walked over to stand beside John. “You two seem good, though.”

“We are good.” John said.

“And hungry.” Sherlock took John’s hand again.

John lifted their hands. “Is this a thing now?”

Sherlock frowned at John.

“This hand holding? Is this what we do now?”

Kate chuckled and Sherlock pulled his hand away.

“I was merely trying to show my support in a non-verbal manner.”

John looked at Kate. “You teach him this?”

“Hardly.” Kate sighed and tugged at Sherlock’s scarf, still around her neck. “I guess I should go and let you two have dinner. And you probably should stop at Babies “R” Us or something.” She smiled at the look of terror on both their faces. “Good luck. With everything.”

“That’s my scarf,” Sherlock said.

“Not anymore. Plus I don’t think alpaca goes well with baby vomit.”

At the door, Kate hugged Sherlock quickly. “I am grateful, you know . . . for Sarah.” 

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock took Kate by the shoulder and pushed her toward the door. “Give my best to Claire.” 

Kate stopped and turned. “Who?” 

John moved next to Sherlock and whispered, “Chloe.” 

“Ah, yes, Chloe. Salut to Chloe. Must go. John’s very hungry. Talk soon. Ta ra.” 

The door closed behind Kate before she realized she was standing in the hallway. 

She shook her head and walked down the hall. She’d call tomorrow and invite them – all three of them – to dinner at her place. She couldn’t believe it. Sherlock Holmes with a baby. She pushed the elevator button and leaned against the wall. It had been a long day. She twirled Sarah’s ring on her finger, reached for the phone in her pocket and called Chloe.

 

**Six Months Later**

 

The e-mail from Sherlock was a link to John’s blog. The subject line contained three words –  _It’s a disaster._  She opened the link and stared at the page, smiling.  It was an entry (a rant, really) about the exorbitant price of infant formula. But what interested her more was the picture at the top of the page. It had been taken in front of the fireplace at Baker Street. John stood, holding Violet, who had a firm grip on what looked like a tiny skull. The front of John’s shirt was covered in . . . something. Mrs. Hudson stood next to John, beaming, with a matching stain trailing down her blouse. Kate zoomed in and examined Mrs. Hudson’s hair. Yep, a piece of peach. Or pear. Hard to tell. 

It was Sherlock who intrigued her the most. He stood a bit apart from the others, to the left of John. Wearing one of his robes over a purple silk shirt. Which was spotless, of course. His arms were crossed in front of him and he was staring at John and Violet. With what could only be called an adoring gaze. She zoomed in again and studied Sherlock's face. Definitely adoring. Whatever had transpired at Baker Street over the last few months had changed him. She couldn’t wait to text him and tell him he’d got it all wrong. Again. She wasn’t looking at a disaster. She was looking at a family. 

 //

 

 _You sign the final papers in May. You stare at the signature on the page and know it will be the last time you ever use that name. You miss her more than you expected, but it’s a pain that’s easily managed.  It’s not regret you feel, but a longing that takes three martinis and a rather eager stripper named Starlet to assuage._

_Getting back in the game is easier than you expect. The money is where you left it and the contracts come quickly – Brazil, Romania, Morocco. If only you could earn frequent flyer miles.  You take a simple job in Cuba and sit on the beach in Veradero for a week when it’s done._

_You finally let out the breath you’ve been holding for three years. Which is probably why you don’t notice him until he’s right there, sitting opposite you.  You’d know him anywhere – even with blond hair, blue eyes, and twenty extra pounds. His smile will always give him away. You’re happy and sad at the same time. It’s what you’ve been waiting for. It’s what you want. It’s never been a choice._

_He lifts his hand to order a drink and turns to you._

_“Did you miss me?”_

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I expected. I started out wanting to write a simple outsider POV of Sherlock and John after he was shot. And it just grew (and grew) from there.
> 
> Thanks always to peg22 and everyone for being so patient and the nice comments.
> 
> Chapter titles are all from Leonard Cohen's song "Everybody Knows".


End file.
